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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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kiS' 


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Marshfield   the   Observer 
(5r  the  Death-Dance 


MARSHFIELD 
IHE  OBSERVER 

The   Death-Dance 

STUDIES  OF  CHARACTER  &  ACTION 


BY 


EGERTON    CASTLE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO,"  "YOUNG  APRIL,' 
"CONSEQUENCES,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  W  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  ^  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCC 


COPYRIGHT    1900,    BY 
HERBERT    S.     STONE    &   CO 


?  "pl^ 


TO 

ALEXANDER    GALT    ROSS 

MY    FRIEND    AND    CANDID    CRITIC 


534768 

UXRARI 


CONTENTS 

Marshfield  the  Observer 

A  Foreword i 

Mrs.  Tollmage i 

The  Guests  of  the  Wolfmaster     .        .        .        -43 

The  Devil's  Whisper 93 

The  Herd-Widdiefow 131 

Endymion  in  Barracks 163 

The  Death-Dance 211 


FOREWORD 


CONCERNING    MARSHFIELD    THE   OBSERVER 

If  there  happen,  among  my  readers,  to  be  any 
who  recollect  an  early  book  of  mine,  "La  Bella 
and  Others,"  they  may  possibly  recall  one 
particular  tale  in  that  collection,  "The  Baron's 
Quarry,"  in  which  a  certain  Marshfield  figures 
as  teller  of  the  story  and  as  Chores  in  the 
development  of  its  action. 

The  same  personage  plays  a  similar  part  in 
most  of  the  present  tales. 

His  was  a  curious,  or  at  least  a  very  unusual 
personality.  I  say  was,  for  although  I  have  no 
positive  proof  of  his  disappearance  from  this 
world,  it  is  already  a  very  long  time  since  I 
have  seen  or  heard  anything  of  him. 

Among  the  many  classes  into  which  it  would 
be  possible  to  divide  intellectual  characteristics, 
there  are  two  very  broad  ones,  especially 
antithetical.  There  are  the  men  whose  main 
energies  tend  ever  towards  action  and  crea- 
tion ;  towards  doing  and  producing.  And  there 
are  those   whose  great  and  all-sufficient  hap- 


FOREWORD 

piness  is  to  study,  to  know;  who  revel  in 
observation  and  theory ;  who  thesaurise  knowl- 
edge for  its  bare  sake,  unproductively,  even  as 
the  miser  thesaurises  means  of  wealth  for  no 
ulterior  purpose.  Marsh  field  was  one  of  these 
latter. 

I  had  known  him  ever  since  my  now  distant 
university  days,  and  never  met  at  any  time  a 
more  promising  subject.  The  great  brain 
power  of  the  man  and  his  truly  marvellous 
capacity  for  digesting  and  assimilating  knowl- 
edge, were  of  the  kind  which  should  have  led 
him  in  life,  through  the  portals  of  brilliant 
degrees,  to  the  very  acme  and  pitch  of  any 
profession.  He  might  have  selected  any  line 
he  pleased,  artistic,  literary,  legal,  scientific; 
what  not?  On  leaving  college  he  was  equipped 
for  a  fair  start  in  any  career.  His  knowledge 
of  art,  for  instance,  being  so  young  a  man,  was 
truly  wonderful.  A  classical  scholar  and 
master  of  many  modern  tongues,  he  was  armed 
not  only  with  an  exact  understanding  of  all 
accepted  philological  discoveries,  but  with 
theories  of  his  own  which,  had  he  chosen  to 
work  them  out,  would  undoubtedly  have  made 
his  name  famous.  The  same,  in  his  case, 
might  have  been  augured  of  natural  sciences, 
or  law.  Yet,  as  years  fell  away,  he  never  rose 
from  the  status  of  mere  student  and  theorist. 
Never  was  such  a  man  for  "getting  up,"  as  the 

ii 


FOREWORD 

jargon  has  it,  an  out-of-the-way  subject,  but 
there  his  energies  stopped;  when  he  had 
secured  it,  he  fairly  revelled  for  a  time  in  the 
new-acquired  knowledge  for  all  its  practical 
uselessness,  even  as  the  collecting  maniac  revels 
in  the  possession  of  some  rare,  if  intrinsically 
worthless,  bibelot.  He  was,  so  to  speak,  an 
Intellectual  Miser.  But  never,  from  the 
moment  he  had  emerged  from  his  status 
pupillaris,  did  the  fellow  make  the  slightest 
attempt  to  increase  his  small  (but,  happily  for 
him,  settled)  income  by  any  profitable  pursuit. 

Among  his  intimates  he  was  long  known  (for 
all  the  prodigious  amount  of  work  he  had 
always  on  hand)  as  the  Idler;  which,  hearing 
one  day,  he  mildly  corrected,  with  some  com- 
placency, to  the  Observer.  And  the  sobriquet 
cleaved  to  him.  Indeed,  as  some  men  succumb 
to  a  passion  for  sport,  and  others  to  one  for 
gambling  or  dissipation,  Marshfield,  once 
absolutely  his  own  master,  became  more  than 
ever  a  prey  to  this  lust  of  unregulated  study 
and  investigation. 

When  we  fell  in  together  again,  some  years 
after  our  college  days,  I  found  that  the  uncon- 
ventional (and,  in  consequence,  somewhat 
unpopular)  undergraduate  had  already  devel- 
oped into  a  decided  eccentric.  But,  oddly 
enough,  he  had  become  an  accepted  person; 

•  •  • 

111 


FOREWORD 

something  even   of    a  favourite,  at    least   in 
certain  circles. 

His  only  permanent  dwelling  was  a  small  set 
of  rooms,  attics  in  the  dingiest  and  ghostliest 
comer  of  old  Clifford's  Inn.  There,  during 
the  intervals  between  fitful  flittings,  mysterious 
and  sudden  disappearances,  he  lived  like  a  sort 
of  rat-in-a-cheese,  surrounded  by  untidy  masses 
of  books,  papers  and  incomprehensible  collec- 
tions of  odds  and  ends,  evidently  fraught  for 
the  moment  with  absorbing  interest. 

A  curious-looking  creature  was  this  pre- 
maturely old-looking  young  man.  Broad- 
headed,  small-mouthed  and  large-eyed;  with 
no  hair  on  his  sallow  face  but  singularly 
marked  eyebrows,  which  contrasted  oddly  with 
a  very  thin  and  pointed  black  moustache ;  with 
an  utterly  unemotional  countenance,  he  recalled 
at  the  very  first  sight  the  physiognomy  of  an 
experienced  and  philosophical  tom-cat.  The 
impression  was  strengthened  by  a  narrow  chest 
and  stooping  shoulders  which,  in  repose, 
irresistibly  suggested  the  humpy  and  tucked- 
up  attitude  of  the  meditative  grimalkin.  And, 
like  those  of  that  absorbingly  selfish  and 
observant  creature,  his  eyes,  though  wide  and 
clear,  were  singularly  unexpressive. 

Bodily,  it  were  difficult  to  imagine  a  less 
vigorous  -  looking  personality ;  thin  -  armed, 
thin-thighed,    with    hands    and    feet    shapely 

iv 


FOREWORD 

enough  but  much  too  small,  with  pale  cheeks 
and  bloodless  lips,  he  might  have  stood  forth 
as  a  type  of  the  great  disinherited  of  manhood. 
He  undoubtedly  passed  for  such  among  those 
who  knew  him  little.  And  yet  a  stronger  con- 
stitution I  never  knew  of.  It  is  not  on  record 
that  he  was  ever  ill,  or  even  indisposed. 
There  was  apparently  no  wear  and  tear  in  the 
man — an  instance  which  would  seem  to  point 
out  that  the  chief  source  of  vital  waste  is  to  be 
sought  in  emotional  life.  For,  whereas  with 
most  of  us  the  greatest  luxury  of  mental  vigour 
is  to  achieve  and  to  give  out,  with  this  cold- 
souled  being  the  height  of  delight  was  reached 
when  he  had  mastered  a  new  conception,  taken 
unto  himself  a  new  entity — that  sufficed.  To 
his  haunting  curiosity  a  new,  fully-realised, 
mental  image  was  as  satisfying  as  a  personal 
experience. 

No  one,  not  even  I,  his  most  intimate,  ever 
knew  anything  positive  of  Marshfield's  private 
life.  In  its  own  way  it  was  decidedly  epicurean, 
but  everything  points  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  singularly  devoid  of  the  cardinal  human 
passions — Love,  Hatred,  and  Ambition.  I 
believe  he  was  incapable,  certainly  not  desir- 
ous, of  experiencing  the  rack  or  the  joy  of 
them  personally.  Yet  I  never  came  across  a 
"neurotic  subject"  who  could  appreciate  more 
exactly  the  yearning  or  ecstasy  of  Love,  or  the 


FOREWORD 

lust  of  Hate ;  but,  like  Ambition,  that  load-star 
of  vigorous  lives,  all  this  was  simply  an 
abstract,  if  well-defined,  conception. 

I  have  called  him  an  Intellectual  Miser, 
rejoicing  in,  but  making  no  use  of,  his  con- 
stant acquisitions.  The  simile  is  apt  in  yet 
another  sense.  Just  as  the  miser  jealously 
ascertains  the  genuineness  of  his  new  treasure 
before  locking  it  up  and  looking  out  for 
another,  Marshfield  always  took  measures  to 
ascertain  whether  any  freshly-acquired  stone 
in  the  mosaic  of  his  encyclopaedic  knowledge 
was  perfect  at  all  points.  And  his  method  in 
so  doing  was  original. 

I  forget  which  philosopher  said:  "Wouldst 
thou  acquire  some  knowledge,  read;  more 
exact  knowledge,  write;  quite  exact  knowl- 
edge, teach!"  Now,  it  did  not  enter  into 
Marshfield's  independent  scheme  of  life  to 
teach,  in  the  regular  sense  of  the  word.  More- 
over what,  in  such  circumstances,  he  would 
have  had  to  teach  would  rarely  have  proved  of 
sound  educational  value.  But,  to  suit  his  end, 
he  worked  on  lines  which  afforded  the  didactic 
opportunities  he  required. 

When,  after  a  more  or  less  prolonged  retreat, 
either  "in  his  own  cheese"  up  in  his  Inn 
chambers,  or  in  the  reading-room  of  the  British 
Museum,  he  felt  his  mind  as  full  of  his  new- 
chosen  subject  as  the  oft-quoted  egg  is  full  of 

vi 


FOREWORD 

meat,  he  would  waylay  some  devoted  friend  in 
some  likely  spot.  This  might  be  in  his  own 
rooms,  or  a  club  corner,  over  a  cigar.  There, 
with  pertinacious  sagacity,  he  would  shape  the 
course  of  converse  to  the  subject  at  hand,  and 
regardless  of  all  deprecation,  expatiate  from 
Alpha  to  Omega  on  the  selected  topic.  It  was, 
truly,  like  the  process  of  "forcing"  a  card.  As, 
however,  his  monologues  (under  the  ostensible 
flag  of  discussion)  were  beyond  doubt  marvels 
of  clearness,  he  almost  invariably  achieved  his 
purpose. 

In  this  manner,  and  often  at  the  oddest  times 
and  places,  I  was  on  innumerable  occasions 
seized  upon  and  made  the  "corpus  vile"  on 
which  to  try  the  "experimentum"  which  was 
to  prove  the  complete  acquisition  by  Marsh- 
field  of  some  preposterous  subject  of  investiga- 
tion. It  might  be  The  Genesis  of  the  Straight 
Line,  based  on  the  Theory  of  Linkages ;  or  The 
Life-purpose  of  the  Earthworm  in  Soil  Trans- 
formation; or  The  Existence  of  Aryan  Races 
in  Peru ;  or  yet  again  new  theories  concerning 
The  Imitative  Tendencies  of  Orchid-forms 
.   .   .  Que  sais-je! 

I  knew  Marshfield's  peculiar  way  of  ringing 
at  my  door,  and  his  stealthy  step  on  my  stair. 
And  when  I  heard  the  sound  (mostly  of  an 
evening  when  I  had  reckoned  upon  a  quiet 
spell  of  musing  or  work  of  my  own)  I  knew 

vii 


FOREWORD 

also  that  my  fate  was  to  endure  several  hours 
of  one-sided  conversation  on  topics  far  removed 
from  my  own  choosing. 

And  yet  there  was  an  undeniable  fascination 
about  the  man.  He  spoke  so  well !  Too  well 
even,  for  his  speech  was  invariably  pedantic; 
but  it  compelled  attention.  He  sat,  very  calm 
always,  half-smiling,  smoking  one  after  the 
other  without  interval  some  half-dozen  of  the 
best  Havanas  he  expected  to  find  under  my 
roof — and  there  was  no  getting  him  away,  or 
getting  away  from  him,  until  he  had  gone 
through  his  intended  performance.  After 
which  he  drank  his  stirrup-cup,  selected  his 
last  cigar  and  departed,  satisfied,  serene,  full  of 
benign  theoretical  friendship,  to  show  no 
further  sign  of  life  for  weeks;  sometimes  for 
months. 

He  was,  on  the  whole,  a  great  solitary.  Yet 
he  had  the  knack  of  forcing  himself  into  any 
society  that  at  the  time  might  have  an  interest 
for  him;  and  curiously  enough  he  was,  as  I 
said,  generally  looked  upon  as  a  decided 
acquisition. 

Marshfield,  son  of  a  learned  but  quite  obscure 
professor  at  one  of  the  smaller  universities  and 
of  a  well-to-do  North  Country  yeoman's  daugh- 
ter; Marshfield,  who  even  admitted  (with  some 
show  of  interest  in  the  matter)  that  an  unmis- 
takable strain  of  Gipsy  blood  ran  in  his  veins, 

viii 


FOREWORD 

had  no  claim  to  the  invidious  degree  of  lineage 
and  ancestry.  But  nowadays,  to  the  great 
benefit  of  the  modern  nation,  birth  is  only  one 
and  by  no  means  an  indispensable  factor  of  the 
status  of  a  gentleman;  and  Marshfield  the 
scholar,  with  the  speech  and  bearing  of  the 
highly-cultured,  with  the  quiet  manners  of  the 
independent-minded,  self-reliant  man,  suffi- 
ciently attentive  to  the  importance  of  suitable 
garb  on  all  occasions,  Marshfield,  eccentric  as 
he  was,  never  seemed  out  of  place  in  any 
society. 

There  is  no  denying,  however,  that  had  it 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  he  was,  after  all,  a 
man  of  comfortable  private  means,  he  might 
have  passed,  when  he  moved  away  from  his 
own  den,  for  something  like  a  chartered  para- 
site. There  was  nothing  of  the  "client"  or 
lap-dog  about  the  man ;  but  it  never  occurred 
to  him  to  dread  the  position  of  what  the  French 
pithily  call  pique-assiette.  When  it  suited  his 
purpose  to  establish  his  dwelling  in  the  mansion 
of  some  kindly  host,  he  did  so  in  the  quiet, 
uncompromising,  absolutely  detached  manner 
of  the  domestic  cat  he  otherwise  resembled, 
without  ever  considering  the  possibility  of  out- 
lasting his  welcome,  so  long  as  the  place 
pleased  him.  And  if  he  was  never  greatly 
loved,  he  was  always  tolerated.  He  was  a 
character,  was  such  a  useful  talker,  so  full  of 

ix 


FOREWORD 

information;  had,  for  instance,  such  a  prodi- 
gious memory  for  "chapter  and  verse"  ready 
against  any  case  in  point.  He  was,  in  short, 
like  Dominie  Sampson,  a  sort  of  literary  dumb- 
waiter. But  above  all,  he  was  a  harmless, 
unobtrusive,  unsophisticated  fellow,  so  every 
one  said. 

Such  was  the  character  Marshfield  bore  in 
society!  It  may  readily  be  realised  what  a 
coign  of  vantage  a  reputation  of  that  kind  could 
afford  a  man,  one  of  whose  main  delights  in 
life  was  the  scanning  and  analyzing  of  "human 
documents." 

I  have  said  that  Marshfield  was  a  creature  of 
essentially  cold  temperament,  dispassionate  and 
speculative.  No  one  has  ever  known  him  to 
be  in  love,  for  instance,  or  to  care  for  beauty 
otherwise  than  in  an  artistic,  critical  manner ;  or 
to  evince  anything  approaching  to  enthusiasm 
and  warmth  of  heart.  But  it  might  almost 
be  said  that  his  interest  in  psychological  display 
among  his  fellow  men — in  the  action  and 
reaction  between  human  character  and  outside 
events — was  all  the  keener  for  being  so  imper- 
sonal. To  him  the  observation  of  a  chain  of 
passional  episodes  could  be  as  congenial  a 
scientific  or  critical  exercise  as  the  study  of  a 
microscopic  slide  or  the  deciphering  of  an 
occult  manuscript. 

Now,  when,  in  his  excursions  into  the  world, 


FOREWORD 

he  had  lighted  upon  one  of  those  innumerable 
dramas  of  the  soul,  which  around  us  come 
constantly  to  the  surface,  like  eddies  in  the 
ever-flowing  stream  of  life,  to  swirl  awhile, 
disappear  and  be  replaced  by  others,  he  rarely 
passed  the  new  revelation,  duly  classified,  to 
his  treasury  of  facts  and  memories,  without 
taking  an  opportunity  of  giving  it  a  finished 
shape  and  pleasing  to  the  mood  of  the  moment, 
and  testing  it  upon  some  hearer  of  his  own 
selection. 

I,  for  instance,  could  fill  several  volumes 
with  the  Observer's  stories,  were  it  not  that 
the  majority  of  these  were  undeniably  more 
suited  to  the  uncompromising  realism  of  a 
Maupassant  than  to  the  reticence  of  an  English 
pen.  The  five  episodes  related  in  this  book, 
however,  are  in  their  variety  sufficiently  typical 
of  Marshfield's  ways  of  reporting  his  observa- 
tions—or rather,  as  he  was  fond  of  calling 
them,  "his  cases  in  point."  For  the  bias  of 
his  general  trend  of  thought,  whenever  he 
expatiated  on  human  actions,  was  always  felt : 
no  story  of  incident  and  passion  ever  came 
from  his  lips  but  as  an  exemplification,  so  to 
speak,  of  some  broad  Law  of  Nature. 

The  story  of  "Mrs.  Tollmage,"  for  instance 
(further  strengthened  by  the  account  of  the 
married  Don  Juan,  among  "The  Guests  of  the 
Wolf  master"),  was  complacently  advanced  as 


FOREWORD 

an  instance  of  the  symmetry  of  "elective"  with 
chemical  affinities. 

The  history  of  Edward  Dalrymple's  haunt- 
ings  was  meant  to  illustrate  a  long  thesis  he 
had  one  night  argued  on  the  subject  of  his 
latest  subjects  of  study — the  Dreaming  State 
and  Hallucinations,  to  wit.  That  night  I 
undoubtedly  learned  much  that  was  interesting 
on  the  theory  of  "subexpectation"  and  "psy- 
cho-sensorial  visualising' ' — yet  not  so  interest- 
ing as  the  love  visions  of  "Endymion  in 
Barracks, ' '  the  account  of  which  crowned  the 
evening's  converse. 

The  tale  I  have  called  "The  Devil's  Whisper" 
is  based  on  one  of  Marshfield's  early  student 
days'  reminiscences,  brought  up  on  an  occasion 
when  (for  once  more  sceptical  than  my  friend 
himself)  I  had  expressed  a  doubt  of  the  exist- 
ence of  any  "remorse"  apart  from  hidden  fear 
of  detection.  Marshfield,  however,  saw  in  it 
(among  other  things)  an  instance  of  "unstable 
equilibrium!"  How  he  worked  out  the  theo- 
rem I  now  forget. 

As  for  the  legend  of  the  ' '  Herd-Widdiefow" — 
which  personage  I  understand  to  have  been  one 
of  Marshfield's  forbears — it  was,  in  some  round- 
about way,  introduced  into  a  discussion  on  the 
characteristics  of  the  many  strong  races  which 
go  to  make  up  what  we  are  pleased  to  call  now 
the  Anglo-Saxon  people. 

Xll 


FOREWORD 

Although  I  have  not  seen  my  friend  for  a 
considerable  time,  it  is  possible  that  he  may 
reappear  on  my  path  in  life  at  some  time  or 
other,  fresh  from  some  distant  whimsical 
expedition,  and  in  his  usual  manner,  just  as 
if  we  had  only  parted  the  day  before.  In  such 
a  case  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  will 
have  new  dramas  of  his  own  observing  to 
report.  Indeed,  as  I  have  often  thought, 
Marshfield,  like  a  latter-day  Sydney  Carton  to 
some  modern  Stryver,  would  prove  an  invalu- 
able "jackal"  to  a  fiction-writing  "lion." 
Most  of  his  succinct  stories  might  easily  be 
used  as  main  themes  for  fully  developed 
romances  or  novels.  I  have,  however,  pre- 
ferred to  place  these  on  record  very  much  in 
the  form  they  assumed  when  they  came  to  be 
told ;  and  merely  qualified  in  the  retelling  by 
the  literary  mood  of  the  moment. 

"The  Death  Dance"  is  a  "true  story"  of  the 
Hungarian  Home  Rule  War  of  1849.  Although 
many  of  the  characters  who  figured  in  that 
almost  incredible  episode  are  still  living,  at 
this  distance  of  time  I  have  not  thought  it 
necessary  to  disguise  the  Hungarian  localities 
and  patronymics  in  any  way,  and  but  very 
slightly  the  English  names  themselves. 


xiu 


MRS.  TOLLMAGE 


Mrs.   Tollmage 


We  were  a  small  but  sufficient  party  in  the 
snug  alcove  end  of  the  club  smoking-room. 
We  had  arrived  at  the  first  petit  verre^  and  were 
thinking  of  our  second  course  of  smoke,  when 
there  entered  upon  us  Marshfield. 

Now  there  is,  as  I  have  said,  not  a  single 
topic  of  discussion,  scientific,  literary,  artistic, 
social,  or  merely  fanciful,  about  which  this 
singular  being  ever  fails  to  set  forth  blandly 
vsome  novel  line  of  discussion.  His  egotistic 
mastery  in  the  art  of  bringing  dialogue  (even 
among  men  who,  like  ourselves,  essentially 
resent  all  tendency  to  "pontifying")  exactly, 
and  withal  quite  naturally,  to  the  starting 
point  he  has  in  view,  is  a  thing  delightful  to 
watch. 

When  he  joins,  in  his  mild,  stealthy  way,  in 
the  general  talk,  the  casual  stranger  would  be 
apt  to  regard  him  at  first  as  an  unobtrusive 
young  man  with  a  gift  of  modesty  and  quite  a 
talent  for  listening.  But  those  who  know  him 
feel  no  amazement  when,  presently,  the  con- 

3 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

versation  frames  itself  under  his  guidance 
to  the  exact  preamble  necessary  to  one  of 
his  paradoxical  assertions  ready  for  defence 
at  all  points,  some  audacious  hypothesis  or 
out-of-the-way  tale:  and  the  measured  voice 
ends  by  wearying  all  others  into  silence. 


Thus,  from  my  corner,  behind  the  misty 
breath  of  a  church-warden,  it  was  with  both 
amusement  and  curiosity  that  I  watched  the 
newcomer  softly  manipulate  the  subject  of  dis- 
cussion till  he  had  introduced  the  particular 
point  upon  which  it  was  evidently  his  intention 
this  afternoon  to  discourse. 

"I  could  give  you  a  case  in  point,"  said 
Marshfield,  by-and-by,  looking  up  from  the 
circle  of  his  glass  of  chartreuse  around  upon 
his  audience — "an  instance  of  the  workings, 
upon  two  thinking  bodies,  of  that  associating 
and  dissociating  force  of  nature  we  call  affinity, 
and  which  is  popularly  supposed  to  act  only  on 
chemical  atoms  and  molecules. 

"You  know,"  added  he,  after  another  sip, 
settling  himself  down  in  his  chair  and  to  his 
narration  with  a  leisurely  zest  that  was  truly 
ominous,  "that  if  the  ultimate  law  of  Nature 
be  Harmony  (as  no  doubt  most  of  us  must  hold 
it)  then  the  deduction  logical  is  that  human 
society    has    not    yet    emerged    from    Chaos 

4 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

Harmony  in  its  true  sense  is  the  exception  in 
human  relations ;  and  that,  of  course,  because 
we  are  still  plunged  in  the  inevitable  incipient 
state  of  all  things  natural.  This  is  what  makes 
the  observation  of  an  obvious  case  of  simple 
working  affinity  among  our  fellows,  such  as  I 
had  occasion  to  witness  in  the  household  of  my 
good  friend  Dr.  Tollmage,  so  very  interesting. 
I  do  not  know  whether  any  one  here  remem- 
bers the  incident?  It  was  town  talk  at  one 
time." 

"What,  the  Tollmage  scandal?"  asked  our 
reverend  antiquary,  rising  in  his  chair  with  an 
alacrity  of  interest  for  which  he  presently 
blushed.  "But  that  was  three  years  ago  or 
more.     Is  there  anything  new  about  it?" 

' '  Nothing  really  new, ' '  answered  Marshfield, 
turning  round  to  the  speaker.  "Only  I  again 
came  across  some  of  the  chief  actors  in  it  but  a 
very  short  time  ago,  and  I  am  more  than  ever 
impressed  by  what  indeed  was  my  feeling  from 
the  very  beginning — that  in  them  the  workings 
of  affinity  have  successfully  combined  a  stable 
out  of  two  unstable  compounds.  It  is  a  com- 
fort to  see  one's  theories  so  agreeably  illus- 
trated," he  added,  with  his  well-known  little 
cackle. 

Now  the  majority  of  his  listeners,  not 
chemists  nor  yet  psychologists,  were  already 
beginning  to  tire  of  Mr.   Marshfield's  special 

5 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

views  on  Pain  and  Pleasure,  Action  and  Reac- 
tion, and  the  "equilibrium  of  happiness,"  how- 
ever ingenious  these  might  be.  But  we  all 
pricked  our  ears  at  the  word  scandal  as  at  the 
approach  of  a  topic  of  more  intelligibly  human 
interest. 

He  had  gained  his  point,  as  usual.  He  now 
proceeded  to  deliver  his  story  from  his  own  odd 
standpoint. 

"The  sensation  created  at  the  time  by  Arch- 
deacon ToUmage's  marital  difficulty,"  said  he, 
surveying  his  audience  placidly,  and  dropping 
into  that  manner  of  speech  which  I  knew  so 
well  and  which  was  as  of  one  dictating,  "was, 
I  believe,  chiefly  confined  to  ecclesiastical 
circles,  as  the  journalese  language  has  it. 
But,  no  doubt,  many  a  society  paragraphist 
would  at  the  time  have  given  more  than  a  trifle 
to  know  the  exact  bearings  of  the  case,  as  it 
was  my  lot  to  discriminate  them.  For  it  so 
fell  out  that  I  was  present  at  the  first  act — no, 
by  the  way,  it  was,  of  course,  the  second — of 
the  singularly  simple  drama  which  in  the  space 
of  one  hour  placed  the  unfortunate  archdeacon 
in  such  an  unexpectedly  painful  position. 

"The  dramatis  personce  were  three,  if  we  do 
not  reckon  the  Confidant,  which  was  of  course 
myself.  To  my  mind  the  most  interesting, 
because  the  most  active,  was  Cosmo  Cameron 

6 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

— Lord  Cosmo,  by  courtesy,  who,  as  you  know, 
is  the  younger  son  of  an  historic  family,  justly 
celebrated  in  those  bygone  times  when  men 
who  had  a  strong  temperament  did  not  scruple 
to  yield  to  its  influence. 

"Now,  hereditary  characteristics  were  un- 
commonly developed  in  Lord  Cosmo,  and  his 
temperament  is,  I  am  bound  to  state,  a  trifle 
too  strong  for  the  conventionalities  of  modern 
social  life,  though,  of  course,  none  the  less 
entertaining  to  me  on  that  account.  I  had  met 
him  once  or  twice  at  the  houses  of  mutual 
friends.  But  it  was  on  the  coasts  of  Japan,  on 
board  his  yacht,  that  we  cemented  our  friend- 
ship, if  so  can  be  called  an  odd  sort  of  attrac- 
tion to  each  other  without  the  smallest  ap- 
proach to  affection  on  his  side  or  trust  on  mine. 

"What  he  appreciated  in  me  were,  no  doubt, 
my  unconventional  views  of  human  action.  To 
me,  his  companionship  became  in  time  a  never 
failing  source  of  enjoyment;  for  he  was  then 
just  the  fellow  to  plan  and  carry  through,  with 
that  sporting  instinct  and  strength  which  I 
lack,  all  sorts  of  risky  enterprises  productive  of 
the  most  precious  observations  to  me.  Besides 
which  this  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  exalted 
Highland  brigands — although  a  pure  Gael 
through  almost  all  his  ascendants  and  there- 
fore not  a  representative  of  the  strongest 
existing  race — was  and  is  an  ideally  beautiful 

7 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

son  of  Nature's  vigour,  and  one  whom  the  pol- 
ish of  modern  luxurious  life  has  had  no  power 
to  deteriorate. 

"A  more  perfect  type  of  manhood,  at  least  to 
my  mind  (for  I  dislike  your  hulking  pink-and- 
white  Saxon  as  much  as  I  admire  his  destiny), 
never  stepped  this  earthly  crust.  As  to  face, 
he  belongs,  according  to  my  classification,  to 
the  hawk  genus  of  physiognomy ;  a  head  and 
forehead  of  classic  smallness,  though  not,  for- 
sooth, of  classic  insipidity;  nose  clear-cut  and 
straight,  though  of  decidedly  predatory  char- 
acter ;  eyes  wide  apart  and  wide  open,  in  repose 
blue  as  steel,  and  with  all  the  inflexible  direct- 
ness of  steel,  but  black  with  an  abnormal  dila- 
tion of  pupils  under  the  slightest  emotion; 
swarthy  as  to  skin  and  hair,  the  latter  crisply 
intractable  in  its  exuberance. 

"There  is  great  expression,  I  hold,  in  teeth. 
His  teeth  drew  my  eyes  strangely  when  he 
smiled — though  his  smile,  I  must  tell  you,  was 
something  delicious  in  its  guileless  candour, 
and  many  a  man  and  woman  has  trusted  him 
to  their  undoing  on  the  strength  of  that  child- 
smile.  But  his  teeth!  They  are  ferocious, 
carnivorous;  withal  small,  white  and  close 
under  very  red,  thinnish  lips.  As  to  figure,  of 
middle  height  only,  lean  and  wiry,  square- 
shouldered,  deep-chested,  slender  of  wrist  and 
ankle,   without  a  blemish  in  his  strength;    a 

8 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

man     without    nerves — save    for    delight    or 
ferocity. ' ' 

There  was  something  almost  pathetic  in  this 
unwonted  enthusiasm  on  the  pale  mouth  of 
Marshfield;  Marshfield  the  large-headed,  the 
white-faced,  the  spindle-shanked,  and  narrow- 
chested,  who,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  been 
driven  to  adopt  as  his  consolatory  motto:  A 
man  is  but  what  he  knows. 

"Such  is  Cosmo  Cameron,  the  outer  animal 
at  least,"  continued  he  after  a  pause  of  retro- 
spective admiration.  "Those  who  have  known 
him  in  London,  trim  and  correct  in  Piccadillian 
attire,  speak  of  him  as  a  'deuced  good-looking 
fellow. ' — Ah !  They  should  have  seen  him,  cleav- 
ing the  blue  water  of  the  tropic  sea,  seen  him 
as  I  saw  him  bearing  down  on  me  through 
waves  of  death,  swift,  noiseless,  like  a  shark 
himself ! 

"He  used  to  have  a  long  swim  at  sunrise, 
from  the  yacht,  during  our  South  Sea  cruise,  a 
thing  that  I  should  detest,  even  if  I  could 
swim.  That  it  was  he  who  contrived  the 
booby-trap  which  sent  me  overboard,  to  have 
the  amusement  of  fishing  me  out  when  I  was 
three  parts  drowned,  and  thus  to  vary  the 
monotony  of  his  day,  I  never  had  a  doubt.     Be 

9 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

it  as  it  may,  however,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
imagine  anything  more  beautiful  than  the 
sheen  of  his  swarthy  skin  through  the  blue 
water  over  my  drowning  eyes ;  anything  more 
superb  than  the  masterly  grip  which  postponed 
my  demise.  I  used  the  word  shark — that 
morning  bath  is  inextricably  associated  with 
the  phantom.  Barely  had  this  young  Anteus 
lifted  me  spluttering  and  blinded,  clear  of  the 
brine,  on  to  the  companion,  when  a  gleaming 
shape,  monstrous  and  indefinable,  leapt  up  at 
us,  nearly  reaching  my  pendant  heel.  Cosmo 
gave  a  strident  laugh,  and  with  one  more 
heave  landed  me  sprawling  on  deck. 

"And,  as  we  leant  over  the  bulwark,  there 
indeed  was  the  sinister  black  fin  of  a  shark, 
shearing  the  surface  of  the  water  below  us.  My 
preserver — for  so  I  must  call  him,  I  presume, 
after  all — never  admitted  that  he  had  descried 
the  devil  brute  making  for  me  from  afar  before 
plunging  to  the  rescue.  But,  like  the  polished 
barbarian  he  was,  thought  the  joke  excellent. 
Half  an  hour  later,  when  we  had  hauled  the 
beast  on  board,  it  was  fine  to  watch  the  savage 
glee  on  his  face,  as,  with  the  carpenter's  axe, 
he  dealt  its  death  blows." 


Thus  far,  as  many  of  us  must  have  thought, 
the  question  of  chemical  affinities  seemed  as 

lO 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

remote  as  ever.  But  Marshfield  always  adheres 
to  his  own  line  of  country,  over  which  those 
who  wish  to  be  in  at  the  death  must  be  content 
to  follow  him. 


"As  to  the  moral  side  of  this  remarkable  but 
somewhat  dangerous  friend  of  mine,  at  least  in 
the  everyday  conventional  sense,  it  is  simpler 
to  say  there  is  none:  he  has  only  Instincts. 
His  feelings  for  me  reminded  me  of  the 
anomalous  affection  some  widely  differentiated 
animals  develop  for  each  other — a  horse  for  a 
cat,  to  give  an  instance — for,  as  a  rule,  he 
shewed  the  most  absolute  contempt  for  all 
natures  not  animally  vigorous.  I  knew  how 
far  it  could  be  relied  upon,  and  would  certainly 
not  have  trusted  myself  blindly  where  interests 
of  life  and  death  materially  differed.  Indeed, 
on  one  occasion  I  imagine  it  was  rather  a 
happy  thought  of  mine  to  have  retained  posses- 
sion of  the  last  revolver.  .  .  .  This,  however, 
would  be  too  long  a  story.  When  we  were  safe 
again  and  in  comparatively  civilized  parts  once 
more,  he  was  highly  delighted  with  me  and 
thought  all  the  more  of  the  weak-armed  student 
for  his  Machiavelian  distrust  and  forethought, 
and  told  me  so,  laughing.  However,  if  one  is 
to  go  by  his  actions  alone,  there  is  no  contro- 
verting the  fact  that  he  was — I  have  reason  to 

II 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

think  he  is  altered  now,  but  that  is  all  in 
accordance  with  my  theory,  as  you  will  see — 
the  most  cynical  scamp  ever  tolerated  by 
Society. 

"Yet,  with  all  his  contempt  for  the  conven- 
tional tenets  of  modern  morals — and  to  say,  for 
example,  that  his  behaviour  to  women  was 
scandalous,  is  to  state  matters  with  the  feeble- 
ness of  polite  language — I  do  not  suppose  there 
was  ever  a  more  widely  popular  being.  He 
was  such  a  man  among  men,  did  such  rare 
fighting  with  his  Highlanders  in  Africa  during 
the  short  time  that  army  discipline  knew  him 
— a  born  leader,  a  bom  sportsman,  the  breezy 
healthiness  of  his  nature  was  simply  infectious. 
So  openly  selfish,  too,  as  to  be  beyond  envy. 

"As  for  the  man  among  women.  .  .  .  The 
epic  Don  Juan  of  the  Spanish  legend  comes  up 
flabbily  to  the  minds  of  those  who  have  known 
my  friend  Cosmo ! 

''MilV  e  tre!  That  is  nothing.  Numbers 
are  nothing.  'Twas  the  station,  the  pride,  the 
unaccountable  downfall  of  this  man's  prizes,  as 
a  rule,  which  struck  one  with  abstract  admira- 
tion ;  all  of  which  was  not,  of  course,  without 
consequences.  That,  rich  as  he  is,  he  has  not 
been  ruined  by  repeated  costs,  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  in  an  unregenerate  world  all  the 
spouses  of  frail  wives  do  not  find  them  out; 
and  that  those  who  do,  sometimes  find  it  to 

12 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

their  better  interests  to  put  tip  with  them ;  or, 
not  having  necessarily  clean  sheets  themselves, 
refrain  from  legal  appeal;  or,  again,  are  non- 
plussed by  cross  actions. ' ' 

"But  there  is  also  the  argument  more  imme- 
diately ad  Jiominem"  put  in  one  who  evidently 
did  not  share  Marshfield's  critical  apprecia- 
tion of  his  hero,  "Horsewhipping  and  such. 
Is  not  such  chastisement  on  record?" 

"  'The  bastinado  is  a  good  dependence,'  " 
quoted  Marshfield  calmly.  "That  is,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "when  the  premise  is  secure,  you  know. 
It  is  apt,  however,  on  occasion  to  fail  in  prac- 
tice. There  was,  no  doubt,  something  in 
Cosmo's  eye,  even  more  than  in  his  depth  of 
chest,  which  stood  as  a  warning  to  theoretical 
thrashers.  But  on  two  occasions,  I  under- 
stand, the  experiment  was  actually  tried.  On 
the  first,  the  Outraged  Husband  was  comically 
run  out  by  the  elbow  and  the  nape  of  the  neck, 
and  dismissed  with  a  caution :  he  was  a  little 
man. 

"On  the  second,  the  Big  Brother,  dear  to  the 
novelist,  called  with  a  hunting  crop  (which  is 
now  in  Cosmo's  collection),  and  without  loss  of 
time  fared  thus :  It  seems  that  his  blundering 
attack  just  grazed  Cosmo  on  the  lip ;  whereat 
Cosmo  showed  his  teeth,  closed,  seized  the 
man's  arm  by  the  wrist,  and  snapped  it  at  the 
elbow  on  his  knee;  then  escorted  him  home  in 

13 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

a  fainting  condition  and  explained  courteously 
at  the  door  that  there  had  been  a  little  accident. 
Still,  notwithstanding  this  constant  superiority 
to  circumstances,  England  did  really  at  one 
time  become  too  hot  a  place  for  my  friend. 
But  it  was  more  for  fear  of  being  at  last 
brought  to  book  and  being  driven  into  mar- 
riage, than  from  any  sense  of  shame,  that  he  saw 
the  advisability  of  disappearing  for  a  while. 

"He  hired  a  large  yacht,  which  he  made  his 
home  for  the  time,  and  on  board  which  I 
eventually  became  his  guest,  when,  as  I  said, 
we  came  across  each  other  during  my  Japanese 
expedition. 

' '  '  But  why, '  I  asked  of  him  one  day,  when 
he  had  expatiated  at  some  length  on  one  of  his 
disgraceful  episodes,  as  he  himself  mockingly 
dubbed  them — 'why  put  yourself  to  such 
infinite  trouble  in  the  cause,  if  you  never  find 
real  pleasure  in  woman's  company?  You 
speak  like  an  utter  blas^,  and  yet  you  will  risk 
not  only  your  own  life  (for  to  juggle  with  that 
is,  I  know,  an  amusement  to  you)  but  your 
friend's — meaning  me — which  ought  to  be  a 
more  serious  consideration,  to  try  some  fresh 
experiment  in  this  seeking  for 

"The  light  that  lies  in  woman's  eyes," 
and    which    has    certainly   been    your   "life's 
undoing,"   as  much  as  that  of  poor  Tommy 
Moore  himself. ' 

14 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

"I  here  alluded  to  a  recent  adventure  of  his 
— of  ours,  rather — in  an  Eastern  port,  which 
had  well-nigh  brought  us  both  to  the  most 
disastrous  of  ends. 

"The  look  he  gave  me  in  reply  was  anything 
but  that  of  the  used-up  man. 

"  'The  risk  to  your  precious  skin,  my  judi- 
cious bottle-holder,'  he  said  drily,  'put  that 
down  to  your  own  insatiable  curiosity.  Con- 
cerning myself,'  he  continued,  in  a  musing 
tone,  'I  foresee  that  the  rest  of  my  life  may 
still  be  spent  in  the  search  of  an  impression. ' 

"  'Oh,  if  you  are  still  seeking  for  new 
impressions!'  cried  I,  and  added  after  an 
eloquent  pause — 'By  this  time,  surely,  unless 
you  have  a  power  of  classification  far  beyond 
the  conceivable,  )'ou  must  always  be  falling 
back  into  the  old. ' 

"He  again  remained  musing  for  a  moment. 
Then  his  reply  threw  a  curious  side-light  upon 
what  I  knew  of  his  life. 

"  'No,'  he  said,  rather  shortly,  'it  is  not  a 
new  impression  I  long  for — it  is  an  old  one.' 
And,  for  the  first  and  only  time,  I  saw  some- 
thing approaching  to  a  pathetic  look  on  his 
masterful  face.     It  was  very  transient. 

"He  had  been  away  for  three  years  when  we 
returned  together  to  England  and  thereupon 
parted. 

"But  during  the  shooting  season  of  that  same 

15 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

year  I  fell  in  again  with  my  peripatetic  friend, 
in  an  unexpected  and,  to  me,  gratifying  way. 
I  was  then  on  a  visit  to  Archdeacon  Tollmage 
— and  this  brings  us  round  to  the  starting  point 
of  my  tale — at  his  rectory  of  Chillingburgh. 

"Archdeacon  Tollmage  was  an  old  friend  of 
my  father's,  and  used,  in  consequence,  to  be 
very  condescendingly  kind  to  me. 

"He  was  then — I  hardly  know  what  he  is 
now — a  superb  epicurean,  on  the  wrong  side 
of  fifty,  with  a  superb  belief  in  himself,  which, 
considering  the  scholar,  the  polished  gentleman 
he  was,  his  fine  taste  for  old  wine  and  for  artistic 
beauty,  his  talent  for  apt  Horatian  quotation, 
the  green  erectness  of  his  person,  his  stature 
and  his  features,  struck  one  as  not  only  justi- 
fied, but  demanded  by  the  fitness  of  things. 

"He  had  a  taste,  as  I  have  said,  for  things  of 
beauty.  The  most  beautiful  appanage  of  the 
great  man's  household  was  undoubtedly  his 
second  wife.  I  understand  that  his  first,  to 
judge  by  the  children  she  bequeathed  him,  was 
not  so  handsome ;  but  she  was  an  error  of  his 
youth,  so  to  speak,  and  he  atoned  to  his 
aesthetic  principles  by  the  choice  of  the  second 
Mrs.  Tollmage. 

"When  I  was  first  introduced  to  her,  I  ran- 
sacked my  brain  to  recall  which  demi-god  of 
the  chisel  or  palette  could  have  foreshadowed 
such  a  face  or  form.     The  figure  was  gorgeous, 

16 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

under  a  plain — ridiculously  plain — close-fitting 
dress  of  sombre  hue,  and  would  have  made  the 
mind  dwell  upon  antique  statuary,  did  not  the 
warm  colouring  of  skin,  eyes,  and  hair  cause 
wandering  memories  of  some  voluptuous  can- 
vas of  Titian. 

"But,  oddly  enough,  in  presence  of  that 
magnificent  person  there  was  no  element  of 
attractiveness  beyond  a  purely  intellectual 
admiration.  I  do  not  speak  of  myself,  who 
have  no  passion  but  one,  and  that,  from  its 
nature, cold-blooded — I  mean  the  lust  of  obser- 
vation; but  others  have  confirmed  my  own 
impression.  She,  with  her  beautiful  head,  set 
in  massive  plaits  of  auburn  hair,  the  waves  of 
which  no  amount  of  barbarously  decorous  close 
dressing  could  subdue;  with  her  deep  eyes, 
shaded  under  long  black  lashes — eyes  that 
should  have  smitten  an  anchorite  with  fire,  had 
any  soul  been  felt  behind  their  glance — failed 
to  produce  aught  but  almost  a  numbing  effect. 
Never  was  there  such  absolute  coldness.  Her 
Juno-like  affability,  if  I  may  be  allowed  such 
an  apparently  absurd  simile,  was  extended  to 
all  about  her,  without  exception,  in  precisely 
the  same  degree ;  to  her  husband,  no  less  nor 
more  than  to  the  casual  visitor;  to  the  guest 
under  his  roof-tree;  to  the  servants;  to  the 
pale-eyed  step-children,  who  yet  seemed  to 
hang  about  her  skirts  with  uncouth  adoration. 

17 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"Nevertheless,  this  calm,  beautiful  manner, 
however  distant  and  uninspired  it  might  leave 
strangers  and  friends — not  to  speak  of  her 
spouse — was  beyond  doubt  precisely  suited  to 
the  taste  of  the  archdeacon.  This  was  interest- 
ing, for  it  must  be  noted  that  there  was  noth- 
ing 'Venerable'  about  him  but  his  title  of 
courtesy,  for  all  the  silvering  of  his  hair. 
Decorousness,  in  every  element  of  life,  in  the 
relaxation  of  pleasure  no  less  than  in  the  per- 
formance of  duty,  was  not  only  an  indispen- 
sable but  obviously  a  chief  •  factor  of  his 
self-satisfaction. 

"On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  of  my  visit 
the  archdeacon  casually  made  an  announce- 
ment which  I  hailed  with  pleasurable  surprise. 
We  were  at  dinner — I  placed  at  one  side  of  the 
noble  old  mahogany,  well-laden  in  old-fash- 
ioned style  wdth  massive  plate  and  rare  cut 
glass,  between  the  insignificant  wife  of  the 
curate  and  my  host,  who  grandly  operated  upon 
the  turbot  at  one  end  and  sent  ever  and  anon, 
in  the  interval  of  condescending  converse 
with  his  guests,  winged  words  of  information 
to  his  consort  who  sat  in  beauty  at  the  other. 

"  'I  called  at  the  Castle  on  my  way  back,' 
said  he,  deftly  detaching  the  neatest  of  fillets 
as  he  spoke,  'and  I  met  one  of  their  new  guests 
for  the  shooting;  who,  when  I  happened  to 
mention     your    name,    Marshfield,'     turning 

i8 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

affably  to  me,  'said  he  knew  you  well — Lord 
Cosmo  Cameron.  Yes, '  he  pursued,  in  answer 
to  my  exclamation,  'he  appeared  curious  to  see 
you  again,  and  so  I  asked  him,  if  it  were  fine, 
to  walk  over  after  dinner,  and  have  coffee  with 
us.' 

"The  archdeacon  and  Lord  Cosmo!  this 
would  be  worth  seeing. 

"But  the  archdeacon  was  addressing  his 
wife. 

"  'This  young  man,  my  dear,  I  must  tell  you, 
has  rather  —  ah  —  a  notorious  reputation. 
There  are,  I  understand,  not  a  few — what  shall 
I  say? — indiscreet  episodes  in  his  past.  In 
fact,  most  people  have  heard  of  his  escapades, 
and  perhaps  you  had  rather  not  make  his 
acquaintance — in  which  case  I  shall  have  him 
shown  into  the  study, ' 

"Mrs.  Tollmage  raised  her  fine  brows  with  a 
slight  display  of  astonishment. 

"  'Surely,'  replied  she  in  her  quiet  melodious 
voice,  'I  can  have  no  objection  to  any  one  in 
whom  you  take  an  interest — a  friend  of  Mr. 
Marshfield,  too, '  with  a  conventionally  amiable 
smile  at  me. 

"  'We  spoke  indeed  mainly  about  you.  Marsh- 
field,  '  pursued  the  host,  giving  a  quick  proud 
look  at  the  spouse,  who  invariably  spoke  the 
fitting  answer.  'He  talked  in  a  most  enter- 
taining manner' — this   with    a   private    smile 

19 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

which  made  me  guess  pretty  shrewdly  that  the 
entertainment  had  been  altogether  at  my 
expense. 

"The  ladies  had  retired,  and  we  were  dis- 
cussing our  second  glass  of  '51  port  with 
becoming  gravity,  when  Lord  Cosmo  was 
announced,  and  burst  into  the  subdued  atmos- 
phere like  a  blast  of  sea  air.  His  breeziness 
might  indeed  have  seemed  offensive  to  the 
archdeacon  and  patronising  to  me  but  for  the 
subtle  indescribable  charm  by  which  this  dog 
of  a  fellow  carried  all  things  before  him. 

"No  longer  the  most  important  guest,  I  was 
now  able  to  retire  into  observation;  and  it 
tickled  my  fancy  most  agreeably  to  perceive 
how  the  life  and  dash  of  this  very  loose  fish 
seemed  to  infect  even  our  magnificent  host. 
As  to  the  bashful,  lymphatic  curate,  his  timid 
soul  was  here  brought  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  I  should  say,  in  contact  with  the  fascina- 
tion of  wickedness,  and  his  'facile  descent'  was 
comic  in  its  rapidity.  It  culminated  in  an  ex- ' 
plosive  cachinnation  at  a  somewhat  broad  but 
indubitably  witty  innuendo  which  had  escaped 
Lord  Cosmo  in  his  headlong  brilliancy  of  utter- 
ance, and  which  the  archdeacon,  holding  his 
third  glass  of  port  critically  up  to  the  light, 
perhaps  to  hide  a  twinkle  of  inward  apprecia- 
tion, had  allowed  to  slip  by  unrebuked. 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

•'But  the  little  parson's  indelicacy  spoilt  it 
all.  The  archdeacon  arose  from  his  chair  in 
majesty,  fixed  a  look  of  withering  reprimand 
upon  his  curate  (not  upon  the  real  offender, 
mind  you),  and  then,  laying  his  hand — it  was 
the  hand  of  a  bishop,  I  always  thought,  plump, 
taper,  white,  and  full  of  persuasion — on 
Cosmo's  shoulder,  moved  an  adjournment  to 
the  purifying  company  of  the  ladies. 

"As  we  filed  into  the  drawing-room,  I  must 
admit  that  there  was  a  quite  unwonted  spici- 
ness  to  me  in  the  thought  of  watching  my 
friend's  behaviour — never  having,  as  it  hap- 
pened, seen  him  in  the  presence  of  European 
ladies  up  to  this — when  it  became  incumbent 
on  him  to  entertain  two  such  extremes  of 
womankind  as  the  proud  Mrs.  Tollmage  and 
her  pretty,  washed-out,  insanely  domestic  com- 
panion. 

"He  was  received  with  unimpeachable 
graciousness  by  the  former,  and  with  quite  a 
flutter  of  affability  by  her  companion,  who  no 
doubt,  like  many  other  estimable  persons, 
dearly  loved  a  lord, 

"When  we  were  duly  installed— Lord  Cosmo 
having  sunk  easily  into  a  low  chair,  close  to 
the  Liberty  draperies  of  Mrs.  Curate  (whose 
spouse,  not  yet  recovered  from  his  agony  of 
blushes,  hung  miserably  about  the  back- 
ground),  the    archdeacon  commanding  us  all 

21 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

from  the  hearthrug,  with  the  firelight  throwing 
his  symmetrical  nether  limbs  into  high  relief, 
and  I  in  the  chimney  corner,  where  there  was 
just  darkness  enough  outside  the  circles  of  pink 
shades  to  enable  me  to  study  unnoticed  the 
faces  of  my  actors — they  were  kind  enough  to 
begin  the  play  for  me. 

"I  was  amused  to  mark  that  our  hostess  alone 
of  us  all  seemed  absolutely  undisturbed  by  the 
exciting  influence  of  Lord  Cosmo's  personality. 
Would  this  pique  my  prince  of  Lotharios?  I 
wondered.  He  seemed,  after  the  glance  of 
almost  startled  admiration  which  the  first  sight 
of  that  rare  creature  never  failed  to  draw  from 
man  or  woman,  to  be  content  to  devote  himself 
to  the  curate's  wife.  But  presently,  as  he  bent 
his  dark  head  over  the  latter's  'tatting,'  he  fell 
silent.  I  saw  him  shoot  a  strange,  eager  look 
at  Mrs.  Tollmage,  and  the  great  pupils  of  his 
eyes  contracted  till  they  became  no  larger  than 
a  pin's  head;  then  they  grew  large  and  black 
again  with  startling  suddenness. 

"Presently,  he  flung  himself  back  against  the 
cushions  of  his  chair  and  closed  his  eyes,  to 
hide,  I  thought,  heaven  (or  the  devil)  knew 
what  now  passed  behind  them;  while  Mrs. 
Tollmage  stitched  on  serenely ;  while  the  arch- 
deacon held  forth  in  genial  dissertation,  the 
mellow  port  beaming  from  his  countenance. 

"  'Perhaps  you  can  give  us  a  day  or  two 

22 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

before  you  leave  these  regions,  my  dear  Lord 
Cosmo, '  he  was  saying ;  the  subject  was  of  his 
cellar  and  Lord  Cosmo's  enthusiasm  over  the 
'51  vintage  having  been  so  generous  a  thing  as 
to  linger  pleasingly  in  his  memory.  'I  should 
like  you  to  taste  my  old  Brdne  Mouton.  It  was 
got  for  me  at  the  sale  of  a  famous  Belgian  cel- 
lar. They  know  good  wine,  I  assure  you,  in 
that  little  comer  of  the  world — and  if  you  care 
to  come  to  us,  my  Lord ' 

"  'Ah,  do  not  tempt  me,  Archdeacon,  cried 
Lord  Cosmo,  suddenly  opening  his  eyes  and 
looking  up  at  the  ponderous  black  form  with 
that  charming  smile  of  his.  'I  do  not  think  it 
is  good  for  me  to  see  too  much  of  a  home  like 
this.  It  makes  one  feel  what  an  outcast  one 
is,  don't  you  know — sort  of  Peri  out  of  Para- 
dise, if  I  may  be  allowed  to  compare  myself  to 
a  Peri.  A  fellow  like  me  is  destined  to  be  a 
wanderer,  and  to  my  wanderings  I  had  better 
betake  myself  again. ' 

"Here  he  sighed  lugubriously.  I  wondered 
what  he  was  making  for;  but  the  archdeacon 
fell  guilelessly  in  with  his  humour. 

"  'But  surely,'  said  he,  with  paternal  mansue- 
tude,  'it  need  depend  only  upon  yourself  to  be 
as  happy  as  other  men,  if  indeed  the  quieter 
charms  of  home  life  appeal  to  you  more  now 
than  the  stronger  excitements  of  a  nomadic 
life?     Does  not  Horace  felicitously ' 

23 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"Lord  Cosmo  burked  the  looming  quotation 
with  a  laugh  and  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

*'  'Woe  is  me!  that  is  outside  the  pale  of 
probability — the  deed  of  my  fate,  in  that  con- 
nection, was  sealed,  a7id  lost,  many  years  ago. 
And  in  trying  to  recover  it  again  I  have  brewed 
for  myself  a  cauldron  of  trouble.  It  has 
pleased  heaven  to  keep  me  and  the  one  woman 
I  could  marry  apart,  up  to  now.  Oh,  I  have 
been  maddened  sometimes  to  think  how  close 
we  may  have  been  to  each  other,  and  not 
known.  I  believe  we  have  never  even  heard 
each  other's  name.' 

"All  eyes,  even  Mrs.  Tollmage's,  turned 
with  different  expressions  of  wonder  towards 
the  speaker,  who,  having  made  his  singular 
statement  with  admirable  simplicity,  lay 
back  in  his  chair  once  more  and  gazed  up 
at  the  ceiling  with  hands  locked  behind  his 
head, 

" 'Oh,  how  romantic!'  gurgled  the  curate's 
wife. 

"  'Very  curious,'  said  the  archdeacon  en- 
couragingly from  the  chimney  corner,  against 
which  he  now  leaned  in  the  stately  attitude 
which  suited  his  figure. 

"Mrs.  Tollmage  said  nothing,  but  after  that 
swift  inquiring  glance  she  prepared  to  listen. 
At  least,  her  fingers,  which  had  been  deftly 
busy  over  some  embroidery,  according  to  her 

24 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

placid  habit,  now  rested  in  her  lap,  and  she 
gazed  abstractedly  at  the  floor. 

"  'Be  it  what  you  like  to  term  it,'  said 
Cosmo,  'romantic,  or  chiefly  selfish,  or  wholly 
foolish,  one  thing  is  certain — I  have  lived  years 
in  the  haunting  hope  of  knowing  once  more 
that  soaring  of  the  soul  from  earth  to  heaven 
which  men  call  love.  It  was  mine,  for  a 
trance-like  moment — once — at  the  touch  of  a 
girl's  hand.  And  no  girl,  or  woman,  I  have 
ever  met  since  has  ever  called  it  into  being 
again.  To  that  unknown  my  love  is  pledged. 
You  see.  Archdeacon, '  he  continued,  his  tones 
passing  from  soft  dreaminess  to  their  usual 
alertness,  'that  my  matrimonial  prospects  are 
remote.'  Then  addressing  himself  to  Mrs. 
Tollmage,  who  sat  with  black  lashes  almost 
resting  on  her  cheeks,  he  said  sharply — 

"  'It  would  not  be  right,  I  am  sure  you  will 
agree  with  me,  for  me  to  marry  whilst  this  love 
for  the  lost  unknown  lives  in  my  heart,  grow- 
ing stronger  and  stronger  every  year. ' 

"Her  response  was  singular.  She  slowly 
raised  her  full  lids  and  looked  straight  at  him. 
Then,  neglecting  his  query,  said  in  a  low 
imperious  voice — 

"  'Tell  the  story.' 

"There  had  come,  to  my  thinking,  an  inde- 
finable change  upon  her.  She  was  immobile 
as  ever,  it  is  true,  but  it  seemed,  if  I  can  use 

25 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

such  a  simile,  as  the  immobility  of  a  bow  at 
full  tension. 

"Cosmo's  eyes  gleamed,  and  from  that 
moment  until  he  ceased  to  speak  he  scarcely 
took  them  from  her  face. 

"  'Yes,'  echoed  the  archdeacon,  with  more 
courteous  inflection,  as  if  to  remove  the 
impression  of  peremptoriness  which  he  evi- 
dently noticed,  and  with  transient  disapproval, 
in  his  wife's  tones.  'Pray  tell  us,  Lord 
Cosmo.  An  episode  which  has  pledged  a  man 
like  you  to  celibacy  must  be  interesting,  if  it 
can  be  told, '  he  added  prudentially ;  and  then 
with  a  smile,  Quicquid  ainoi' Jiissit  .  .  .  /  yet, 
perhaps,  after  all  it  may  be  a  case  of  conscience 
which  can  be  solved.' 

"  '  'Tis  hardly  a  case  of  conscience,'  returned 
Cosmo,  rather  shortly;  and  it  amused  me  to 
see  how  his  conventions  and  civilities  were 
dropping  from  him  one  by  one.  'It  was  a 
very  simple  idyll,  or  rather  a  midsummer 
night's  dream.' 

"  'How  nice!'  exclaimed  the  curate's  wife, 
rattling  her  bangles. 

"  'And  it  happened  thus,'  wehton  Cosmo, 
with  absolute  disregard  of  the  interruption. 
He  was  seated,  one  arm  hanging  over  the  back 
of  his  chair,  half  turned  to  face  Mrs.  Tollmage, 
who  reclined  in  statuesque  attitude,  her  shapely 
feet  crossed  and  resting  on  a  stool,  her  eyes, 

26 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

which  I  had  never  seen  so  large  or  so  brilliant, 
fixed  haughtily,  as  I  thought,  on  the  speaker. 

"  'It  was  in  one  of  our  Mediterranean  sta- 
tions, at  a  ball  given  by  the  Governor,  the  very 
night  before  the  date  fixed  for  my  regiment's 
departure.  I  was  not  then  the  bearded  travel- 
ler you  see  here,  but  a  callow  subaltern  of 
Highlanders.  The  place,  an  old  palace,  was 
thronged,  giddy  with  colour  and  music — the 
sort  of  atmosphere,  you  know,  that  drives  a 
young  fool  ofE  his  head,  I  was  pretty  exhila- 
rated with  the  fumes  of  it  already,  when  a  fel- 
low (one  of  the  stewards)  took  me  up  to  a  girl 
that  was  standing  out.  He  did  not  know  either 
of  our  names,  evidently,  so  he  made  the  mum- 
ble that  is  sufiicient  for  etiquette.  I  did  not 
care  a  jot  then,  anyhow;  and  when  she  looked 
up,  rather  shyly,  and  my  eyes  plunged  down 
into  the  marvellous  depths  of  hers,  sea  blue, 
there  shot  a  kind  of  pang  into  my  heart,  and  all 
sublunary  matters  vanished  into  dim  space. 
Which  of  you  have  known  love  at  first  sight, 
love  that  is  love,  and  can  understand  what  I 
mean?' 

"There  was  a  curious  hoarse  alteration  in 
Cosmo's  voice,  and  he  stopped  as  if  absorbed; 
but  after  a  little  while  he  resumed  his  tale,  and 
this  time,  in  the  tones  of  one  revelling  in 
exquisite  memories : 

"  'We  never  spoke  a  word   to   each  other. 

27 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

She  rose  and  yielded  a  bending,  divinely  young 
waist  to  my  arm,  and  I  carried  her  along 
through  the  whirl  of  a  waltz.  From  that 
delicious  head  by  my  shoulder  to  my  brain 
bewitched,  passed  thoughts  unspoken — un- 
spoken except  in  music.  How  I  knew  I  can- 
not tell  you,  but  I  knew  that  as  I  felt  she  felt ; 
that  like  me  she  was  floating  in  a  waking 
dream  through  enchantment.  You  know,  in 
dreams,  how  free  one  is:  pleasure  is  never 
marred  by  any  of  the  interferences  of  waking 
life,  duty,  appearances,  consequences,  and 
such  like  drags!  We  halted  at  last  near  an 
open  door  that  gave  on  terraced  gardens,  and 
again  we  looked  at  each  other  without  speak- 
ing. The  grounds  were  lit  by  hanging  tinted 
lamps,  and  the  night  sky  was  deep  blue  and 
strewn  with  stars;  in  this  darkness  made 
visible  there  flitted  by  groups  and  couples. 
We  stood  face  to  face  on  the  threshold,  alone 
in  our  united  thoughts,  in  the  midst  of  the 
noisy  throng.  Little  puffs  of  air  came  up  to 
us  from  the  flower-beds,  intoxicating  even  as 
our  delight.  I  could  not  speak.  I  could  have 
sung  like  a  soaring  lark,  but  spoken  words 
were  impossible;  yet  in  her  eyes  I  read  my 
own  desire,  and  so  we  walked  forth,  her  hand 
trembling  on  my  arm!  The  fortune  of  love 
brought  us  quickly  apart  from  all  the  rest,  and 
there  in  the  quaint  old  garden — between  the 

28 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

geranium  hedges — do  you  know  what  a  warm 
pungent  scent  they  have,  after  the  heat  of  the 
day? — there  I  kissed  her  wavy  hair,  the  lids  of 
her  eyes,  sweeter  than  all  dim  violets,  and 
when  our  lips  met,  she  yielding  her  soul  to  me 
as  willingly  as  I  mine  to  her,  I,  kilted  sub- 
altern, was  made  a  god  in  the  glory  of 
Olympian  joy!  And  thus  I  found  and  lost  in 
the  same  hour  the  woman  whose  body  and  soul 
are  by  right,  by  the  order  of  universal  fitness, 
mine:  and  shall  be  mine  yet,  if  ever  her  path 
crosses  my  own  again. ' 

"As  he  said  his  tale  a  dark  flush  rose  in 
Cosmo's  cheek,  and  at  the  last  few  words  there 
was,  although  he  did  not  raise  his  voice — how 
shall  I  express  it? — a  kind  of  suppressed  roar 
in  it,  and  the  veins  swelled  on  his  forehead. 

"A  mantle  of  restraint,  variously  diversified, 
.had  fallen  on  the  company.  The  archdeacon, 
when  I  stole  a  glance  at  him,  looked  dubious, 
and,  in  a  manner  far  removed  from  his  usual 
complacency,  was  surveying  his  unimpeach- 
able silken  ankles.  The  curate's  wife,  shocked 
in  all  the  best  feelings  of  the  British  matron, 
was  exchanging  glances  of  dismay  with  her 
freshly-blushing  husband.  Mrs,  Tollmage  sate 
white  and  still;  her  eyes  were  cast  down 
heavily ;  her  straight  brow  slightly  knitted  as 
if  under  an  effort  of  thought.  As  for  me,  I 
felt  something  of  the  unpleasant  suspense  of 

29 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

one  who  foresees  a  coming  explosion ;  but  none 
the  less  did  I  find  the  situation  of  rare  interest. 

"After  a  short  silence  the  archdeacon,  with 
the  instinct  of  the  man  of  the  world,  trying  to 
hide  his  annoyance  at  a  turn  of  conversation  so 
little  suited  to  an  archdeaconal  drawing-room, 
said,  with  a  palpable  effort  to  appear  uncon- 
cerned and  to  treat  the  indecorum  as  of  no 
importance — 

"  'It  appears  to  me.  Lord  Cosmo,  that  since 
you  were  so  madly  bent  on  making  this  ...  ah, 
very  exceptional  young  lady  your  wife,  fate  has 
perhaps  been  kind  to  you  in  keeping  your  paths 
separate.  And  yet,  having  so  far  aroused  our 
curiosity,  pray  let  me  remind  you  that  you  have 
not  yet  told  us  how  you  lost  her ;  how,  with  all 
this — ah — ardour,  you  never  succeeded  in 
meeting  her  again?' 

"  'Alas,'  cried  Cosmo,  with  an  exhilaration 
of  manner  much  at  variance  with  the  words, 
'you  ask  me  the  question  I  have  so  often  and 
vainly  asked  myself!  How  could  I  have  so 
lost  her  who  was  my  second  self?  How  could 
I,  having  grasped  my  happiness,  have  allowed 
it  to  escape  me?  And  yet  the  answer  is  so 
obvious.  It  all  happened  so  easily,  so  fatally 
easy !  How  long  we  kissed  I  cannot  tell,  such 
poignancy  of  bliss  is  not  to  be  measured  by 
time;  but  the  awakening  came.  Some  fools 
came  crunching  down  our  path — and,   like  a 

30 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

startled  dream,  she  melted  away;  slipped 
frightened  from  my  arms,  and  was  gone.  As 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  it  was  my  confounded 
old  colonel  who  had  borne  down  upon  us.  He 
kept  me,  bantering  me  upon  my  timid  partner, 
like  the  idiot  he  was,  for  five  precious  minutes. 
When  I  was  free  I  sought  her  like  a  madman — 
sought  her  in  vain.  The  aide  who  had  intro- 
duced us  had  cause  to  remember  me  that  night 
— the  way  I  pestered  the  fellow,  but  to  no  good ! 

'*  'He  swore  by  all  his  gods  he  had  no  notion 
whom  he  had  introduced  to  whom ;  and  in  the 
end  told  me  that  I  had  had  too  much  cham- 
pagne, and  advised  me  to  go  to  bed  or  to  the 
devil. 

"  *No  one  else  of  my  acquaintances  had 
noticed,  it  seems,  my  slender  girl-beauty. 
She  must  have  belonged  to  some  casual  visit- 
ors, and  next  day  we  were  steaming  away 
towards  Africa.  I  had  some  thoughts  of 
deserting,  but  the  madness  just  stopped  short 
of  that.  When  the  regiment  returned  home,  I 
left  the  service  and  began  again  my  wild  hunt 
for  the  unknown,  but  never  with  a  glimmer  of 
success.  And  so,'  he  added,  smiling,  with 
dancing  eyes,  'no  hope  for  me  but  in  a  freak 
of  fate.  Yet,  after  all,  as  the  old  saw  has  it, 
everything  comes  at  last  to  him  who  waits. ' 

"  'A  most  extraordinary  story,'  quoth  the 
archdeacon   sarcastically;   'but   surely  you  do 

31 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

not  mean  to  give  us  to  understand  that,  no 
matter  in  what  circumstances  you  find  this 
person  again,  you  are  prepared  to  make  her 
your  wife.  Judging  from  what  you  have  told 
us  of  her — ah — hum — peculiar  behaviour  with 
you — I  should  be  inclined  to  fear — hum — 
aha. ' 

"The  archdeacon  did  not  conclude  his  sen- 
tence, but  left  us  to  gather  his  inference,  which 
was  unmistakable. 

"  'Oh,  fie,  how  uncharitable!'  cried  Lord 
Cosmo,  with  a  mocking  laugh;  'why,  my  good 
Shepherd  of  Souls,  I  should  think  of  the  pre- 
cept :  Let  him  who  has  never  sinned ' 

"The  archdeacon  flushed  and  drew  himself 
up.  He  was  evidently  deeply  annoyed  at  being 
drawn  into  such  a  discussion.  But  neither  his 
dignity,  nor  the  old  Adam  in  him,  would  allow 
him  to  grant  this  reprobate  the  last  word. 

"  'Far  be  it  from  me  to  condemn  any  one, 
my  Lord, '  he  remarked,  with  solemn  acerbity. 
'  I  sincerely  trust  that  this  young  girl  may  have^ 
as  years  advanced,  perceived  the  beauty  of  that 
modesty  and  discretion  which  are  women's  fair- 
est adornments ;  and  I  trust  also  that  if  you  do 
meet  her,  you  will  find  her  ready  to  turn  with 
horror  from  the  remembrance  of  her  past  folly 
and  trifling — um — aha — perhaps  unwilling  even 
to  renew  the  acquaintance  with  one  who — 
ahem — ^has    perhaps  shown  since  a  levity  of 

32 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

appreciation  of — ah — the  relative  value  of 
justice  and— sin!' 

"But  Lord  Cosmo,  who  had  now  risen  and 
seemed  to  walk  on  air  in  increasing  exultation, 
was  irrepressible. 

"  'Nay,  if  you  mean  me,*  he  retorted,  'I 
should  tell  her  that  if  I  have  sinned,  sinned 
repeatedly,  sinned  to  perdition,  it  was  through 
the  loss  of  her;  that  in  all  my  madness  she 
never  was  once  out  of  my  mind  and  heart — not 
once;  that  such  a  life  as  I  have  led  has  but 
taught  me  all  the  more,  if  such  a  thing  were 
possible,  that  there  is  only  one  woman  in  the 
world  for  me,  and  that  woman,  she.  And 
when  I  meet  her  again,  I  shall  say:  Come. 
And  she  will  come.  She  will  come  to  me  from 
her  mother's  side,  from  out  of  convent  walls, 
from  husband  or  from  children.  Aye,  she  will 
come,  for  she  is  mine.  And  were  she  in  heaven 
she  would  come  to  me  in  hell. ' 

"The  bomb  was  cast.     Impossible  to  describe 

the  awfulness  of  the  silence  which  followed 

these  awful  words. 

"  '  Bei  ihm,  bei  ihm  ist  Seligkeit 
Und  ohne  Cosmo  HoUe,' 

murmured  I  idiotically,  in  the  vain  hope  of 
giving  a  lighter  direction  to  the  terrible  serious- 
ness of  my  friend's  misdeed;  but  neither  he, 
nor  any  one  else,  had  a  thought  to  spare  to 
such  insignificance  as  myself. 

33 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

•'Cosmo  had  halted  opposite  Mrs.  Tollmage, 
and  when  he  ceased  speaking  their  eyes  met ;  I 
saw  the  look  that  passed  between  them,  and  I 
would  fain  describe  it  to  you — it  was  a  flame. 
You  fellows,"  said  Marshfield,  turning  to  the 
novelist  and  to  us  generally — "you  have  so 
twisted  and  tortured  our  wholesome  English 
tongue  out  of  all  exactness  in  your  struggles 
after  the  novel  and  the  realistic,  that  if  one 
wants  to  convey  a  strong  impression  nowadays, 
one  is,  willy-nilly,  driven  into  hyperbole.  That 
interchange  of  glances  between  those  two 
made  me  feel  as  if  it  would  have  scorched  me, 
had  I  come  between. 

"Then  I  saw  the  tension  of  her  whole  beau- 
tiful body  relax.  A  tide  of  colour  swept  over 
her  face  and  her  lips  parted.  After  a  second 
she  rose ;  as  did  immediately  every  one  else  in 
the  room. 

"The  archdeacon,  outraged  in  his  most 
sacred  susceptibilities,  was  speechless;  prin- 
cipally, I  should  say,  from  a  sense  of  the 
inadequacy  of  all  decorous  language  to  such  an 
emergency.  In  the  pause  the  curate  and  his 
wife  took  their  leave,  conveying  in  their  adieux 
to  their  hosts  much  melancholy  sympathy,  and 
in  their  bows  to  Cosmo  and  myself  a  Christian 
abhorrence. 

"Mrs.  Tollmage  took  two  or  three  steps  with 
them  towards  the  door,  and  there  stood,  half 

34 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

turned  away  from  tis,  her  proud  head  a  little 
bent,  as  if  listening. 

"Cosmo  next  came  forward. 

'*  'It  is  time  to  depart,'  he  said  quietly,  dans 
le  vague;  and  composed,  airy,  deliciously 
unconscious  of  offence,  walked  up  to  his  swell- 
ing host  on  the  hearthrug. 

"  *Is  there  not  an  up-train  which  stops  at 
Chillinburgh  about  this  time,  and  can  you  tell 
me  exactly  when  it  is  due?* 

"  'Ten  thirty-five,'  said  the  archdeacon,  too 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  getting  rid  of  his 
troublesome  guest  to  note  the  oddness  of  the 
query  from  one  who  had  taken  up  his  abode  in 
the  neighbourhood,  for  the  time,  at  least.  (But 
I  noted  it.) 

"Cosmo  took  out  his  watch,  'There  are  just 
a  few  minutes  to  spare, '  he  said  emphatically. 

"Mrs.  ToUmage  here  moved  out  of  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  'Well,  good-night.  Archdeacon,'  went  on 
Cosmo,  smiling  pleasantly;  'I  hope  I  have  not 
scandalised  you. ' 

"  'I  shall  not  speak  about  myself,'  said  the 
divine,  with  much  dignity,  'but  I  fear  you  have 
strongly  displeased  Mrs.  Tollmage,'  looking 
round  significantly  at  her  empty  place.  'She 
has  not  been  accustomed  to  such  talk  in  her 
drawing-room.' 

"  *I  should  be  sorry  to  think  I  had  offended 

35 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

her,'  returned  the  culprit,  suavely.  'I  hope  I 
may  soon  have  occasion  to  efface  all  bad 
impressions.'  And,  with  consummate  assur- 
ance, he  shook  the  archdeacon  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  nodding  familiarly  to  me,  left  us, 

"For  a  moment  the  archdeacon,  surprised 
almost  into  rigidness  by  such  unwonted  treat- 
ment, stood  lost  in  reflection,  then,  turning 
somewhat  ruefully  to  me — 

"  'I  am  afraid,  Marshfield,'  he  said,  'that 
your  friend  is  a  little  mad. ' 

"'Perhaps,'  said  I;  yet  could  not  help 
adding,  for  I  felt  that  the  bomb  was  yet  to 
burst,  'but  I  must  say  there  seems  to  be  much 
method  in  his  madness. ' 

"Whereupon,  whether  impelled  by  the 
desire  of  beholding  so  dangerous  a  person 
safely  off  the  premises,  or  by  his  duties  as  host, 
or  yet  by  curiosity,  the  archdeacon  proceeded 
with  stately  gait  to  the  hall  to  see  the  last  of 
Lord  Cosmo  Cameron. 

."We  found  him  just  encased  in  his  fur-lined 
coat,  standing  apart  from  the  servants,  and  I 
thought  that  his  face  now  looked  pale.  But, 
even  as  we  appeared,  there  came  a  swift  rustle 
of  silk  upon  the  stairs,  and  he  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  gesture  of  exultant  triumph, 

"It  was  Mrs.  Tollmage,  who  hurried  forward, 
enveloped  in  a  long  crimson  cloak,  the  hood 
of  which  she  was  drawing  over  her  head  as 

36 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

she  came.  I  could  see  her  little  black  satin 
slippers  gleam  in  and  out  under  a  froth  of 
lace. 

"  'Why,  Olivia!'  ejaculated  the  archdeacon. 
She  never  even  turned  her  head ;  but,  slacken- 
ing the  rapidity  of  her  steps,  continued  to  walk 
towards  the  open  hall  door  with  her  usual 
stately  demeanour. 

' '  Through  the  still  night  air  came  the  distant 
roar  and  shriek  of  the  approaching  up-train. 
Lord  Cosmo  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  us 
and  smiled:  it  was  the  smile  of  a  Lucifer  who 
had  reconquered  Heaven  by  his  wiles.  Then 
he  made  a  low  bow  and  offered  his  arm  to 
the  archdeacon's  wife;  and  together  they 
passed  out  between  the  model  footman,  who 
strained  a  rolling  eye  after  them,  and  the 
dignified  butler,  second  in  majesty  only  to  his 
master. 

"The  archdeacon  made  a  sudden  movement, 
but  meeting  his  butler's  impassable  glance, 
arrested  himself. 

' '  '  Marshfield, '  said  he  with  a  strong  effort  at 
pretending  unconcern,  but  with  a  strangled 
voice,  'shall  we  take  a  turn  too?  The  night  is 
fine.' 

"There  was  some  slight  delay:  while  the 
footman  darted  for  overcoats  and  the  butler 
presented  hats,  I  stood  with  every  sense  keen- 
ly on  the   alert.      I  heard  the   swing-gate  at 

37 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

the  end  of  the  garden  fall  to  with  rhythmic 
thuds. 


"It  was  a  beautiful  night;  but  that  half- 
hour's  walk  under  the  dim  starlight  along  the 
gravel  paths  of  the  rectory  gardens,  listening 
to  the  miserable  platitudes  by  which  the  unfor- 
tunate man  endeavoured  to  baffle  the  horrible 
anxiety  growing  upon  him,  though  all  the  time 
he  was  straining  his  ears  to  catch  the  sound  of 
those  footsteps  which  were  never  to  return,  and 
nursing  the  vials  of  his  wrath  for  that  curtain 
lecture  which  was  never  to  be  delivered,  was 
one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  experiences  of 
my  life. 

"And  then,  when  the  pretence  of  waiting 
could  be  no  longer  kept  up,  there  was  still  a 
little  interlude  when  the  deserted  husband, 
clutching  at  the  last  shreds  of  his  self-respect, 
prated  of  his  apprehension  of  accidents  and 
sudden  sickness;  upon  which  we  started  "to 
make  inquiries,  beginning,  by  tacit  under- 
standing, at  the  station. 

"And  there,  at  last,  the  bomb  burst.  Of 
course  I  knew  from  the  beginning  what  had 
happened,  and  I  must  confess  that,  much  as  I 
liked  Cosmo — and  even  sympathised  with  him 
to  a  certain  extent  (that  is,  in  the  abstract), 
even  here — that  my  thoughts  turned  many  a 

38 


MRS.    TOLLMAGE 

time  that  dreary  night  with  something  like 
revolt  to  the  picture  I  could  conceive  of  the 
unalloyed  raptures  of  the  reunited  couple,  while 
they  steamed  away  unconcerned,  as  in  a  dream, 
of  all  consequences,  leaving  ruin  and  misery 
behind  them. 

"He  had  said:  'Come,'  and  she  had  gone. 
And  the  poor  archdeacon  had  to  bear  his 
humiliation  and  dishonour  with  as  good  forti- 
tude as  he  could  muster. 

"This  is  the  whole  story  in  a  nutshell. 

"However,"  said  Marshfield,  in  conclusion, 
"this  abduction  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  hus- 
band was  not  really  the  most  curious  point  of 
the  case.  It  might  perhaps  rank  only  as  one 
of  Lord  Cosmo's  variegated  amatory  ventures, 
but  for  the  fact  that  it  has  been  the  last  of  the 
long  series." 

"Indeed!"  said  our  reverend  antiquary,  no 
doubt  hoping  to  hear  at  length  a  tale  of  retribu- 
tion. "Has  their  sin  been  brought  home  to 
them,  then?" 

"Brought  home  to  the  innocent,  deserted 
archdeacon.  But  not  to  Cosmo,  nor  to  his 
mistress — mistress  still,  faute  de  mieux,  for  the 
abandoned  husband  has  taken,  whether  inten- 
tionally or  not,  the  only  revenge  in  his  power :  he 
never  sought  a  divorce,  his  reading  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, he  said,  not  admitting  of  such  a  remedy. 

"That  is   the    only  drop   of    bitterness    in 

39 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

Cosmo's  cup;    curiously  enough,  she  seems  to 
care  little  or  nothing  about  the  matter. 

* '  But  Cosmo,  as  he  told  me,  characteristically, 
feels  himself  capable  of  coming  back  to  Eng- 
land and  strangling  the  archdeacon  if  the  latter 
has  not  soon  the  tact  to  retire  from  existence, 
and  so  allow  the  legitimation  of  the  young 
Camerons  present  and  to  come.  Otherwise  a 
more  perfect  life-harmony  I  have  never  seen. 
I  have  the  pleasantest  recollection  of  my  recent 
visit  to  them  in  Paris. 

"I  confess  that  what  I  witnessed  there  aston- 
ished me  not  a  little,  until  I  had  applied  my 
little  theory  to  the  case.  The  change  was 
integral.  Cosmo  the  volatile,  Cosmo  the  selfish, 
the  irrepressible,  with  whose  adventures — even 
the  comparatively  few  I  happen  to  know — I 
could  fill  several  novelist's  note-books,  had  all 
his  passion,  energy,  all  his  life's  desires,  his 
pride,  his  every  moment's  thought  centred 
upon  his  mate;  she,  the  cold,  the  impassible,  the 
haughty  Mrs.  Tollmage,  after  more  than  three 
years  of  this  interloping  union,  showed  without 
a  thought  of  reserve  all  the  ardour  of  a  newly- 
won  mistress,  looked  years  younger,  and  wore 
on  a  face  more  beautiful  than  ever  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  serenity  of  happiness  I  have 
ever  seen.  If  anything  happens  to  either  of 
that  couple  before  the  taming  of  old  age,  I  am 
positive  the  other  will  not  exist  alone. 

40 


MRS.   TOLLMAGE 

"But  to  return  to  my  original  strain  of 
similes.  Here,"  said  Marshfield,  "is  a  pretty 
example  of  the  universal  working  of  the  prin- 
ciple of  affinity :  a  free  molecule  possessed  of 
high  potential  energy  ready  to  'run  down,'  as 
the  jargon  has  it,  roams  in  highly  unstable 
condition  in  the  chaos  of  unsettledness,  that  is 
with  its  destiny  unfulfilled,  until  it  comes  in 
contact  with  a  certain  other  molecule,  anti- 
thetically situated ;  whether  free  and  unstable 
like  itself,  or  attached  to  another  of  lesser 
affinity,  it  matters  not.  The  meeting  takes 
place,  and  behold  the  sudden  action,  inevitable, 
irresistible,  and  above  all  the  absolute  change 
in  the  two  agents'  innermost  nature  after  the 
disruption  of  the  weaker  compound  and  the 
expulsion  of  the  less  attractive  element. 

"I  do  not  know,"  concluded  Marshfield,  ris- 
ing at  last  and,  with  his  little  cackle,  pulling 
the  creases  out  of  his  coat  after  the  long  sit- 
ting, "whether  I  make  myself  understood,  but 
I  assure  you  that  it  is  a  description,  in  words 
of  broad  theory,  of  the  Tollmage  affair." 


41 


I 


THE  GUESTS 

of  the 
WOLFMASTER 


The  Guests  of  the  Wolfmaster 

"Such  a  bout  as  we  have  just  seen,"  said  I 
to  Marshfield,  as  we  emerged  from  the  Fencing 
Club  one  day,  "is  all  very  well,  most  brilliant 
and  all  that — but  it  is  absolutely  inconceivable 
at  sharps." 

"Ah!"  said  Marshfield  enigmatically, 

I  noticed  that  he  looked  as  though  he  could  a 
tale  unfold.  I  knew  then  that  he  had  sought 
me  that  afternoon  in  my  most  likely  haunt  to 
pour  into  my  willing  ear  one  of  his  latest 
stories. 

"You  recollect,"  he  went  on  presently,  in  his 
usual  complacent,  measured  manner — "you 
recollect  Cosmo  Cameron — I  mean  you  remem- 
ber my  speaking  of  him?" 

The  sound  of  the  name  whipped  up  my 
attention  at  once.  I  had  never  met  the  man, 
but  had  none  the  less  learned  to  take  a  vivid 
interest  in  his  singular  personality.  Rapidly, 
while  Marshfield  paused,  evidently  for  the  pur- 
pose of  allowing  me  to  do  so,  I  recalled  the 
salient  points  of  what  Marshfield  had  told  me  of 
this  man's  career.  .  .  .  So,  the  wild  Cameron 
was  again  to  the  fore,  and  in  a  duel !  It  then 

45 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

flashed  upon  me  that,  as  previously  described 
by  Marshfield,  he  was  none  of  your  academic 
swordsmen,  and  the  vision  of  that  masterly, 
deliberate,  terrible  thrust  which  had  concluded 
the  encounter  we  had  just  witnessed  on  the 
floor  of  the  Fencing  Club  rose  vivedly  before 
my  mind's  eye. 

"The  deuce!"  said  I,  with  a  definite  pang  of 
regret  and  disappointment.  ' '  Is  that  the  end 
of  it  all?"  And  then,  moralising:  "Jealousy, 
I  suppose.  It  could  not  go  on  for  ever. 
Jealousy — on  his  side,  of  course." 

But,  as  I  looked  for  confirmation,  Marshfield 
was  still  smiling  his  thin  smile  quite  inscru- 
tably. 

"Jealousy?"  he  replied;  "not  exactly.  At 
least,  not  the  sort  of  jealousy  any  one  has  heard 
of  for  some  centuries.  It  was  curious  enough, 
the  whole  story — motive,  execution,  and  finale. " 

The  utter  absence  of  concern  upon  the  speak- 
er's face  struck  me  with  surprise.  Cold- 
blooded creature !  Why,  the  man  had  been  his 
friend  for  years!  But  Marshfield,  as  I  have 
already  said,  has  his  own  way  of  telling  his 
tales;  and  so  I  listened,  as  we  continued  our 
western  trend  beneath  the  skeleton  trees  of  the 
Parks. 

"You  are  probably  aware,"  said  he,  starting 
upon  his  narrative  with  measured  delivery  and 

46 


GUESTS    OF  THE  WOLFMASTER 

chosen  epithets,  as  one  lecturing  from  his 
notes,  "that  the  wolf,  an  extinct  animal  in 
England,  is  still  to  be  found  on  the  Continent. 
To  this  day  there  exists  in  France  an  office 
which  savours  quaintly  of  the  old  world,  that 
of  wolfmaster,  or  Lieutenant  de  Louveterie, 
whose  work  it  is  to  assist  in  carrying  out 
annually  the  destruction  of  as  many  wolves  as 
possible, 

"When  I  was  lately  in  Paris,  the  guest  of  that 
incomparable  couple,  Lord  Cosmo  Cameron 
and  his  wife — now  regularly  so,  for  the  Vener- 
able, the  Archdeacon,  my  good  old  friend,  had 
fallen  victim  to  the  influenza  a  year  ago— 
they  received  an  invitation  to  spend  a  week  at 
the  chateau  of  a  certain  M.  de  Sourdes,  who, 
holding  an  appointment  such  as  I  have 
described,  was  hospitably  inclined  to  extend 
its  rare  privilege  to  a  select  few  in  wolfing- 
time.  Cosmo,  eager  to  accept  but  bound  to 
me,  asked  and  obtained  permission  for  me  to 
accompany  them,  though,  truth  to  say,  I  am 
hardly  the  type  of  individual  the  wolfmaster 
generally  invited  on  such  occasions. 

"The  chateau  of  La  Motte-Herbault  is  one 
of  those  eighteenth-century  French  country 
mansions,  all  for  luxury  and  comfort,  and  with 
nothing  left  of  mediaeval  sternness  about  it, 
for  all  that  it  was  built  upon  the  foundation  of 
an  antique  stronghold,  as  its  name  implies.     It 

47 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

stands  well  in  the  Sologne  district — good 
sporting  country,  as  you  know — midway 
between  Berry  and  Touraine.  I  like,"  said 
Marshfield,  with  a  little  pedantic  nod,  "to 
speak  of  France  in  terms  of  the  old  provinces : 
it  means  so  much  more,  historically,  than 
their  new-fangled  departments.  A  very  per- 
fect house,  with  pointed  roofs  of  slate  and 
much  curvetting  ironwork.  The  main  body, 
originally  a  hunting-box  of  the  first  Bourbon 
king,  broad  and  stately,  with  double  marble 
stairs  leading  in  Renaissance  style  to  the  great 
door,  is  flanked  at  right  angles  by  two  pavil- 
ions of  later  "Rococo"  times,  which  must  have 
witnessed,  in  their  pristine  days  of  powder  and 
patch  and  general  dissoluteness,  a  number  of 
tender  adventures  and  souper  fins.  These 
buildings,  in  conjunction  with  a  noble  iron 
gate,  inclose  what  the  architects  of  such  places 
term  the  cour  d'honneur.  The  winter  from 
which  we  are  barely  emerging  has  been,  you 
may  conceive,  propitious  to  the  seekers  of 
wolf -premiums ;  and  M.  de  Sourdes,  as  lieuten- 
ant of  the  district,  had  had  more  opportunities 
to  carry  out  the  duties  of  his  office  than,  as  he 
told  me,  for  the  last  ten  years.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, of  the  mysteries  of  Louveterie  that  I 
would  entertain  you  now,  but  rather  of  Cosmo, 
and  I  will  leave  our  adventures  with  hound  and 
gun  out  of  sight. 

48 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

"Cosmo,  who,  in  loco,  shows  himself  quite 
continental,  gave  me  what  he  called  'la  carte 
du  pays,  mon  cher. '  But,  save  our  host,  the 
Camerons  themselves,  one  beauteous  Madame 
Andreassy  (of  whom  more  anon)  and  the  fine 
man  that  she  held  as  her  cavalier,  my  fellow- 
guests,  good  specimens  of  the  fashionable 
French  male  and  female,  ready  of  speech, 
excellent  of  manners,  and  loose  of  morals, 
most  of  them,  had  no  special  interest  for  me. 

"Vicomte  de  Sourdes  (a  descendant,  by  the 
way,  of  the  fourth  Henry  of  France,  from  the 
wrong  side,  of  course),  the  owner,  not  only  of 
the  chateau  and  its  demesne,  but  also  of 
enormous  tracts  in  the  wild  Sologne,  is  a 
thorough  sportsman,  a  type  rarer  in  France 
than  among  us,  but  nevertheless  to  be  found 
occasionally,  for  all  our  traditional  jokes;  a 
hard  rider,  a  first-class  whip  and  shot,  with 
that  intense  and  intelligent  appreciation  for 
things  English  that  seems  not  only  the  mark  of 
every  true  sportsman,  but,  in  these  days  of 
systematic  democratisation  over  yonder,  the 
acme  of  bon  ton  among  the  exclusive  set.  A 
middle-aged  widower  who,  having  suitably 
married  ofE  all  his  daughters,  has  resumed  the 
demeanour  of  th^  Vert-Galant,  that  forebear 
he  is  so  proud  of  and  whom  he  undoubtedly 
recalls  to  the  mind ;  merry-eyed,  deep-chested, 
with  ringing  laugh  and  conquering  upturned 

49 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

grey  moustache ;  drinking  his  three  bottles  of 
Burgundy,  and  loving  the  company  of  pretty 
women  in  his  house  as  much  (though  not  more) 
as  that  of  men  that  are  men.  '' Des  hommes, 
jarnidieii  .  .  .  pas  des  mannequins,  palsavibleu!' 
as  he  says  (for  he  has  adopted  a  selection  of 
expletives  suited  to  his  ancestry  and  appear- 
ance). Fellows  who  can  paddle  the  half -frozen 
marshes  with  eye  and  hand  on  the  alert,  who 
can  do  justice  to  his  piqueurs'  sagacity  in  the 
boar-hunt,  follow  him  up  steeps  and  across 
torrents  that  would  make  an  M.  F.  H.  stare; 
fellows,  besides,  who  can  come  in  the  evening 
to  the  choice  dinner  and  his  old  Volnay,  and 
turn  a  wide-awake  eye,  jarnicoton!  upon  the 
new  toilettes,  and  a  gallant  ear  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  his  fairer  guests.  I  think  it  was  dis- 
tinctly understood  in  the  world  that  none  but 
fair  faces  on  the  one  hand,  and  thorough  paced 
good  and  stout  fellows  on  the  other,  were  ever 
entertained  by  the  Vicomte  at  La  Motte-Her- 
bault;  and  invitations  were  appreciated 
accordingly.  Howl  came  to  be  there,"  com- 
mented Marshfield,  "was  owing  to  the  fact  that 
M.  de  Sourdes  had  nothing  to  refuse  Cosmo. 

"Of  course,  the  long  tale  of  the  latter 's 
adventures,  amorous  and  otherwise,  was  well 
known  to  the  set  in  which  our  Vicomte  lived ; 
his  unbreakable  vigour  of  health  and  strength, 
and  the  magnificence  of  his  wife's  beauty,  were 

SO 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

equally  eloquent  qualifications  for  the  freedom 
of  La  Motte-Herbault. 

' '  The  house,  as  I  have  said,  was  full.  And 
if  in  one  way  it  was  a  perfect  Walhalla  for  lov- 
ers of  sport,  it  was  also  in  another  a  veritable 
Abbey  of  Thelema  for  the  lovers  of  those  easy, 
ephemeral  and  transparent  plots  of  gallantry 
which  are  the  very  salt  of  life  in  an  idle  society. 
Delightfully  appointed,  full  of  tempting  and 
luxurious  nooks,  it  formed  so  handy  a  shelter 
for  the  carrying  on  of  amorous  intrigue,  more 
or  less  openly  conducted  under  the  smiling  and 
knowing  eyes  of  the  jolly  Vicomte,  and  the 
spectacles  of  his  eminently  respectable,  but 
eminently  dense,  sister,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
conceive  its  perfection  in  that  direction  other- 
wise than  as  the  result  of  system.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  only  two  unpardonable  crimes  at 
La  Motte-Herbault  were:  not  to  be  amusing  or 
not  to  know  how  to  amuse  oneself. 

"Cosmo  and  his  wife — it  is  impossible  now 
to  reckon  one  without  the  other — came,  how- 
ever, perilously  close  to  the  first  offence.  But 
he  redeemed  the  situation,  as  you  will  see, 
with  his  usual  brilliancy." 


Marshfield  paused  a  moment,  his  eyes 
absently  lost  in  the  copper  mist  hanging  over 
distant  Kensington. 

51 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"That  I  am,"  he  pursued,  taking  up  the 
interrupted  thread  of  his  story  and  his  stroll  in 
the  same  leisurely  fashion,  "of  the  cold-blooded 
order  of  vertebrates,  is,  I  believe,  the  figur- 
ative (and,  as  usual,  un technical)  way  my 
friends  have  of  describing  me.  I  am  incapable 
of  creating  the  warmth  requisite  for  enthusiasm. 
Yet  my  interest  in  the  Camerons  began  to  run 
curiously  near  such  weakness.  In  my  eyes 
Cosmo  has  always  been  the  most  splendid  type 
of  the  natural  man.  A  civilised  being,  if  you 
will,  artistic  too,  and  cultivated  in  a  certain  odd 
way,  but  one  in  whom  civilised  polish  has 
deadened  nothing  of  man's  native  savagery. 
These  characteristics  were  remarkable  enough 
in  his  "dishevelled  youth-time"  (as  the  French 
have  it),  but  their  workings  after  he  had,  as  any 
Viking  or  Northman  of  old  might  have  done, 
snatched  and  carried  off  the  woman  he  wanted, 
were  immeasurably  more  wonderful. 

"I  can  only  think  of  the  superb  mating  of 
the  lion  in  the  midst  of  minor  weaker  life  of 
the  world,  terrible  yet  admirable,  all  sufficient 
and  serenely  scornful  of  aught  beyond  the 
^go'isme  cl  deux.  Byron  has  a  rhyme  some- 
where, I  believe,  anent  his  yearning  that  the 
whole  of  beautiful  womankind  had  but  one 
mouth,  that  he  might  kiss  it.  Now,  my 
Cosmo  had  found  what  was  to  him  the  living 
realisation  of  all  feminine  glory  and  delight  in 

52 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

this  willing  captive  of  his  bow  and  spear.  In 
fact,  the  love  of  the  whilom  Don  Juan  seemed, 
after  these  years,  to  grow  more  and  more 
exalted. 

"To  watch  this  man  and  this  woman  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  artificial,  the  most  subtly- 
corrupt  society  imaginable,  to  see  them  remain 
as  wholly,  selfishly,  single-mindedly  centred  in 
each  other  as  the  first  pair  themselves  might 
have  been  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  was,  you 
will  admit,  to  one  whose  passion  is  to  observe, 
above  all  to  observe  human  nature,  a  spectacle 
as  interesting  as  it  was  rare.  Conceive,  if  you 
can  .  .  .  but  no,  you  could  not  conceive  the 
delicate  delight  of  the  moral  anatomist  with 
such  phenomena  under  his  scalpel ! 

"Our  host,  however,  I  fancy,  had  hardly 
reckoned  upon  such  a  state  of  things  when  he 
had  asked  the  couple  down  as  his  guests  of 
honour.  *  Cest  du  ddire,  positivement, '  he  said 
to  me,  the  first  evening,  'this  passion  of  your 
friend  for  his  spouse !  There  is  only  one  case 
like  it  on  record,  that  of  my  ancestor,  the  great 
Henri,  for  my  ancestress,  the  beautiful 
d'Estree  .  .  .  and  that,  you  know,  had  at  least 
the  excuse  of  irregularity.  It  is,  perhaps,  not 
so  amusing  for  us  others  as  if  it  was  .  .  .  well, 
the  other  way,  but,  sangrebleu,  I  understand  it 
—yes,  I  understand  it.  Peste!  what  a  superb 
woman,  your  friend's  wife!' 

53 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"As  for  me,  I  have  seldom  passed  a  more 
agreeable  time' than  those^  three  days  of  the 
great  snowstorm.  It  was  a  terrific  blizzard, 
and  there  was  no  question  of  man,  far  less  of 
horse,  venturing  into  the  country.  In  conse- 
quence, the  whole  society  was  thrown  upon  its 
own  resources  for  enjoyment  indoors.  At  first, 
no  doubt,  the  whole  feminine  camp,  and  perhaps 
some  of  the  men,  too,  welcomed  the  situation. 

"But  in  the  circumstances  you  can  imagine 
what  sort  of  a  forcing  house  La  Motte-Herbault 
became  for  the  development  of  what  in  that 
society  is  euphemistically  called  flirtage.  In  a 
very  short  time,  the  wholesome  equilibrium 
between  the  business  of  sport  and  the  relaxa- 
tion of  ladies'  society  being  destroyed,  a  loaded 
atmosphere  of  storm  began  to  be  felt  within  as 
well  as  without.  Our  host,  I  think,  foresaw  it. 
(Perhaps  he  had  had  some  previous  experience 
of  the  kind!)  He  spent  most  of  the  ample 
spare  time  between  meals,  prolonged  as 
festively  as  "possible,  in  anxiously  tapping  the 
weather-glass,  in  vainly  scanning  the  thick  fall- 
ing flakes  for  a  peep  of  sky,  or  in  useless  con- 
sultation with  sundry  brick-coloured,  odd-faced 
piqueurs. 

"The  ladies,  who  up  to  now  had  been  all 
sweetness  with  each  other  and  with  their 
admitted  swains,  began  to  discover  elements  of 
disturbance  in  the  new  joy  of  having  the  latter 

54 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

in  attendance  from  morning  till  night— too 
severe  a  test  at  the  best  of  times.  Lovers' 
quarrels  ensued,  and  raids  (whether  in  perverse 
initiative  or  for  mere  reprisals)  into  camps 
hitherto  respected;  acerbity  in  some  cases, 
exchange  of  hostages  in  others. 

"Towards  the  third  day  relations  in  this 
small,  very  earthly,  paradise  became  exceed- 
ingly strained  indeed,  and  natural  observation 
from  a  perfectly  neutral  standpoint  correspond- 
ingly amusing.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth 
the  storm  suddenly  abated  outside;  but  it 
broke  out  indoors;  produced,  in  fact,  the  strong 
diversion  required  to  clear  the  atmosphere  of 
latent  discontent. 

' '  For  some  time  Madame  Andreassy,  of  the 
whole  company,  had,  under  my  watchful  eye, 
exhibited  the  most  obvious  signs  of  exaspera- 
tion. Of  this  lady  I  have  promised  further 
details.  Hers  was  an  interesting  personality, 
one  that  at  any  time  would  have  well  repaid 
special  study.  A  Levantine  Greek,  married  to 
some  immensely  rich  financier  of  her  own 
nationality,  who  did  not  accompany  her  to  La 
Motte-Herbault,  she  was  (barring  Lady  Cosmo) 
far  and  away  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  the 
party,  in  her  own  limber,  luxurious,  Oriental 
way.  And  it  did  not  need  the  pantomime  of 
my  genial  host's  countenance  and  gesture 
when  referring  to    her  to  make  me  form   a 

55 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

pretty  shrewd  conjecture  as  to  what  particular 
class  of  feminine  temperament  she  belonged. 
I  heard  she  had  known  Cosmo  in  days  gone  by. 
— That  Cosmo !  it  would  seem  as  if  there  had 
never  been  a  notoriously  pretty  woman  in  the 
world  he  had  not  known.  Before  I  had 
observed  her  in  his  company  for  the  space  of 
three  minutes,  I  drew  clear  conclusions  as  to 
the  nature  of  her  previous  acquaintance  with 
my  handsome  friend,  and  to  her  readiness  to 
renew  it  on  the  same  footing,  all  present  little 
impediments  notwithstanding. 

"She  had  nevertheless  a  very  fine  swain  of 
her  own — a  man  in  a  thousand,  certainly,  in 
the  eyes  of  a  woman  of  her  nature.  By  the 
way,  you  may  have  heard  of  him ;  he  is  a  cele- 
brated frequenter  of  the  salles  d'armes,  and 
has  had  as  many  duels  as  Bussy  d'Amboise — 
the  Chevalier  de  Navarrenx." 


"Manuel  de  Navarrenx,  do  you  mean?"  I 
exclaimed.  The  name  brought  back  at  once 
to  my  mind  the  starting  point  of  my  friend's 
tale.  "Why,  of  course.  I  have  crossed  a 
courteous  blade  with  him  myself  at  the  Mirli- 
tons  in  Paris.  He  is  "one  of  the  first  four."  A 
handsome  fellow.  A  little  too  theatrical  per- 
haps, but  it  suits  him  uncommonly.  To  see 
him,  in  his  black  velvet,  fall  on  guard  with  his 

56 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

die-away  airs  and  his  white,  melancholy  face,  so 
odd  in  its  contrast  to  that  fierce,  up-turned 
moustache  that  stabs  the  moon — well,  it  is 
worth  seeing !  He  looks  as  if  he  had  just  stepped 
out  of  a  Velasquez  canvas.  Then  to  feel  the 
masterly  touch  of  his  blade,  revealing  in  a 
second  the  whole  affectation  of  his  seeming 
languor.  .  .    !     Yet  he  makes  it  go  down. " 


"That  is  the  very  man,"  continued  Marsh- 
field.  "Well,  despite  the  fact  that,  as  I  said, 
he  was  her  special  servant  (a  recent  conquest 
too,  evidently,  for  I  thought  to  detect  a  certain 
ardour  under  the  languorous  mien  you  have 
described),  the  little  lady  was  nevertheless 
quite  ready  to  throw  him  overboard  for  Cosmo. 
That  was  apparent  to  me  the  very  first  time  I 
laid  eyes  upon  them  together. 

"I  was  in  the  great  white  and  gold  salon 
early  and  watched  the  guests  file  in.  Madame 
Andreassy  arrived,  with  calculated  effect,  just 
one  moment  after  the  dinner  announcement :  I 
think  she  flattered  herself  she  was  the  last  and 
certainly  the  most  noticeable  of  the  assembly. 
But  she  had  reckoned  without  the  Cosmos; 
for,  even  as  she  swung  herself  into  the  room, 
clad  in  the  most  daring  of  the  late  lamented 
Worth's   creations,   and  was  revelling  in  the 

57 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

little  stir  her  appearance  created,  the  English 
couple  halted  side  by  side  on  the  threshold  of 
another  door  opposite,  and  all  eyes  turned  with 
a  sort  of  amazed  admiration  upon  them. 

"I  hardly  ever  realised  so  strongly  before 
how  much  our  own  race,  at  its  best,  surpasses 
all  others  than  at  the  moment  when  I  saw  the 
magnificent  pair  advance  upon  us  in  the  midst 
of  all  that  was  vigorous  among  men  and  fair 
among  women  in  France. 

"Cosmo  looked  to  me  as  distinctly  beautiful 
as  might  an  antique  god  (if  we  can  imagine  an 
antique  god  swarthy  and  aquiline)  who  had 
stepped  down  from  his  heathen  paradise  among 
the  common  herd  of  men ;  his  wife,  in  her  trail- 
ing dress  of  white  velvet,  large  and  sumptuous, 
yet  simple,  as  superior  to  all  women  present  in 
herself  as  was  the  noble  cut  and  hang  of  her 
robes  to  their  elaborate  toilets.  Cosmo,  as  he 
told  me  later,  insisted  upon  a  yearly  dress-buy- 
ing pilgrimage  to  Vienna,  the  only  place  on  this 
planet,  according  to  his  wide  and  special  knowl- 
edge of  such  matters,  where  justice  could  be 
done  to  a  splendour  of  that  standard. 

"The  general  movement  which  greeted  their 
entrance  was  almost  equivalent  to  an  outcry, 
and,  unobserved,  I  noticed  the  extraordinary 
series  of  changes  which  passed  over  Madame 
Andreassy's  face.  If  ever  a  devil  looked  out 
of  a  woman's  eyes,  he  looked  out  of  the  fair 

58 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

Levantine's  as   she   shot    a  glance  from  her 
former  admirer  to  his  wife  and  back  again. 

' '  Presently  Cosmo,  perfect  in  affable  suavity, 
was  assigned  to  convey  her  in  to  dinner ;  the 
host,  I  fancy,  must  have  had  a  little  delicate 
hint  from  the  Andreassy  woman  to  that  effect.  I 
have  given  you  to  tmderstand  that  M.  de  Gour- 
des had  a  genial  sympathy  with  most  p^chds 
mignons^  above  all,  as  he  told  me,  with  one  of 
his  great  laughs,  when  committed  by  p^cher- 
esses  mignonnes.  After  the  first  shock,  caused  by 
the  Englishwoman's  appearance,  Madame  An- 
dreassy had  recovered  all  her  native  confidence. 
She  knew — none  better — the  power  of  her  own 
audacious  charm.  Moreover,  it  could  never 
enter  into  her  conception  of  ethics  that  it  were 
possible  to  prefer  the  fruits  of  one's  own  lawful 
preserves,  be  they  never  so  luscious,  to  those 
that  could  be  rifled  from  a  neighbour's  ground. 

"I  sat  opposite.  The  lady  to  whom  I  was 
entrusted  having,  in  a  very  short  time,  openly 
showed  that  she  did  not  consider  me  game 
worth)'-  of  her  shot,  I  was  able,  over  an 
exquisite  fare,  to  devote  all  my  attention  to 
them.  Madame  Andreassy  spoke  English — a 
language  unfamiliar  at  our  end  of  the  table, 
therefore  more  private ;  and  though  she  must 
have  ^seen  that  I  was  listening,  and  been  well 
aware  that  she  was  revealing  little  secrets,  she 
did  not  seem  to  care — probably  for  the  same 

59 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

reason  that  all  through  life  has  induced  people 
of  that  kind  to  treat  me  as  of  no  account.  It 
is  not  flattering,  but  it  is  convenient. 

"She  was  delightful  to  watch,  laying  her 
snares  as  deftly,  as  eagerly,  as  restlessly  as  a 
spider ;  with  the  same  seeming  purposelessness 
covering  the  same  exactness  of  design.  And 
yet  Cosmo,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  beauty 
that  displayed  itself  by  his  side,  ripe  as  a  peach, 
and  as  tempting,  had  nought  but  perfunctory 
glances  of  civility.  At  first  she  was  demure 
and  simple — airs  that  contrasted  piquantly  with 
the  depth  of  knowledge  in  her  brown  eyes, 
where  the  devil  that  was  enthroned  was  now 
of  the  most  alluring  kind.  But,  presently,  she 
realised  the  necessity  of  more  vigorous  attack. 

"  '  Mon  Dieii!  how  strange  they  should  meet 
again — she  who  had  thought  they  never  would 
— never !  Did  he  remember  how  many  years 
ago? — the  yacht,  the  dear  yacht!' 

"Cosmo  bowed  with  an  air  that  might  pass 
for  one  of  delicate  discretion — that  discretion 
which  is  as  salt  to  the  other  savours  of  a 
romantic  understanding.  But  his  eyes  wan- 
dered rather  listlessly  from  his  neighbour  down 
the  long  row  of  faces  till  they  caught  Lady 
Cosmo's  gaze,  and  then  they  brightened  with 
that  wonderful  flame  I  had  first  seen  in  them 
the  day  he  had  recognised  his  lost  love  in  the 
poor  Archdeacon's  drawing-room. 

60 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

"Then,  as  if  refreshed  and  satisfied,  he 
turned  suddenly  a  polite  but  extinguished 
glance  upon  Madame  Andreassy,  and  she,  with 
a  mock-modest  eyelid  upon  her  cheek,  pro- 
ceeded upon  her  reminiscences. 

"  'That  night  at  Smyrna,  when  the  moon 
rose,  and  she  and  her  poor  father— pauvre 
papa,  il  est  viort,  vous  saves — had  supped  with 
Lord  Cosmo;  and — did  he  remember? — poor 
papa  had  fallen  so  fast  asleep;  Lord  Cosmo 
had  sat  near  her  on  deck,  and  he  had  said 
things — oh,  but  things!' 

'*She  laughed,  but  her  laugh  was,  designedly 
or  not,  a  little  tremulous, 

"  *Eh?  If  she  had  listened  to  him  that  night 
when  he  wanted  to  give  the  order  to  let  the 
white  wings  of  the  dear  yacht  to  the  wind,  if 
they  had  sailed  together  away ' 

"She  paused,  and  Cosmo,  with  a  light  laugh, 
cried,  in  his  airy  French — 

"  '  Tiens,  and  did  I  offer  to  run  away  with 
papa,  too?' 

' ' '  Oh,  non—je  me  tronipe, '  said  the  Levan- 
tine with  a  sudden  daring  look,  and  sinking 
her  voice  as  she  relapsed  once  more  into 
English;  'that  night  papa  was  not  of  the  com- 
pany. ' 

"  ''Mon  Dieu,  Madame,'  said  he,  with  a 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  'moonlight  or  starlight, 
at  Smyrna  or  in  Japan,  those  nights  on  the 

6i 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

yacht  were  all  so  like  each  other  that — ma 
foi  .  .  .' 

"The  rebuke  was  radical.  It  required  all 
the  masterfulness  of  a  Cosmo  to  dare  such  a 
one. 

"Madame  Andreassy  grew  a  little  pale.  I 
saw  the  diamonds  on  her  bosom  scintillate 
under  the  quickened  pulse  of  her  heart.  After 
a  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  however,  she 
said,  with  admirable  composure — 

"  'I  see.  All  the  past  is  to  be  forgotten, 
then.  So  much  the  better;  what  is  past  is 
finished,  and  what  is  finished  is  stupid.  We 
must  then  remake  acquaintance,  Milord.  It  is 
the  present  that  is  the  good  time. ' 

"  'Ah,  the  present,'  repeated  Cosmo,  his  eyes 
playing  truant  again;  'yes,  the  present  is  good, 
as  you  say,  Madame.' 

"Madame  Andreassy  followed  his  eyes,  and, 
with  a  sudden  petulant  movement,  rolled  her 
bread  between  her  fingers  as  if  she  would  have 
kneaded  a  little  cake  of  poison. 

"Meanwhile,  her  own  particular  cavalier  ate 
his  dinner,  quite  undisturbed,  between  the 
smiles  of  two  minois  chiffon^s,  one  of  which 
belonged  to  the  neglectful  dame  allotted  to  me. 
There  was  no  jealous  quiver  on  his  conquering 
moustache,  no  anxious  roll  of  his  fatal  eye.  In 
fact,  if  truth  be  told,  he  stared  a  good  deal  him- 
self at  Lady  Cosmo,  who  was  well  within  his 

62 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

range  of  vision.  He  was  an  experienced 
Thelemite. 

"  'How  changed  he  is,  your  Cosmo!'  said  the 
little  lady  to  me  suddenly,  after  dinner  that 
night,  and  with  an  angry  look,  as  if  she  held 
me  in  some  way  responsible.  'I  knew  him 
long  ago,  but  it's  not  the  same  man.  Say,  then, 
what  has  happened  to  him?  He  used  to  be  so 
gay,  so  full  of  talk!'  Then,  as  if  struck  with 
fresh  indignation,  'Cest  qiCil  est  abruti,  ce 
pauvre  Cosmo!  It  is  that  terribly  large  Eng- 
lishwoman, that  statue  in  low  dress!  Ah,  what 
a  marriage!  And  ^  propos,'  dropping  her 
voice,  'is  it  a  marriage,  en  par  enthuse?  You 
can  tell.  One  hears  funny  things.  Our  good 
hostess  is  all  propriety,  of  course,  and  she 
would  hardly  ask  us  to  meet  a  faux  manage  if 
she  knew.' 

"And  Madame  Andreassy  modestly  rear- 
ranged a  camellia  in  the  deep  valley  of  her 
bosom,  casting  down  her  eyes  with  a  sudden 
assumption  of  particularity  that  was  quite 
charming.     'It  would  be  a  little  strong,  hein?' 

"  'Oh,  reassure  yourself,'  I  said.  'Lady 
Cosmo  is  Lady  Cosmo  Cameron  as  fully  as  law 
or  church  can  make  her. ' 

' '  '  Tant  mieux, '  said  Madame  tartly,  closing 
her  fan  with  a  snap;  'and  since  how  long?' 

"  'Madame,'  said  I,  'I  believe  the  eldest 
child  is  nearly  three  years  old. ' 

63 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"She  gave  me  a  quick  look,  smiled  a  curious 
little  smile,  nodded  her  head,  and  then  turned 
to  welcome  the  approach  of  those  moustaches 
which — such  was  the  infection  of  the  easy 
immorality  of  our  surroundings — I  had  already 
come,  myself,  to  consider  as  lawfully  her  own 
property. 

"Ignoring  her  first  repulse,  the  dauntless 
dame  began  her  attack  afresh  the  next  day.  I 
almost  admired  her  perseverance,  her  unshak- 
able belief  in  her  own  power  and  in  the  frailty 
of  masculine  resolution,  in  the  face  of  the 
rebuffs  which,  though  now  with  the  most  per- 
fect breeding  in  the  world,  Cosmo  continued  to 
administer.  She  left  no  wile  untried,  down  to 
extravagant  eulogies  of  Lady  Cosmo's  beauty 
and  effusive  civility  to  the  latter  (who,  by  the 
way,  received  it  after  the  stony  fashion  that  I 
defy  any  one  but  an  Englishv/oman  to  adopt  in 
perfection).  The  next  move  was  an  affected 
coldness,  a  blasting  scorn  and  indifference,  and 
a  melting  show  of  favour  towards  her  own 
chevalier.  This  last  note,  in  her  endeavour, 
no  doubt,  to  awaken  some  answering  chord  in 
Cosmo's  system,  she  pitched  somewhat  too  high 
even  for  her  sympathetic  surroundings;  but 
the  beau  Navarrenx,  for  all  his  blas^  air, 
seemed  to  turn  the  tune  to  pleasant  account 
for  himself. 

"These  undercurrents,  so  long  as  the  busy 

64 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

life,  which  kept  the  men  out  of  doors  during 
the  best  part  of  the  day,  lasted,  did  not  make 
much  difference  in  the  social  intercourse  at 
La  Motte-Herbault.  But  during  the  great 
imprisonment,  when  the  general  harmony 
began,  as  I  have  informed  you,  to  be  seriously 
disturbed,  the  married  lovers  became  the  butt 
for  either  the  mockery  or  the  ill-humour  of  the 
company. 

"Now  the  men,  as  a  rule,  would  have  been 
content  to  accept  them  just  as  they  were;  in 
fact,  it  pleased  me  to  note  the  unconscious 
respect  which  marked  their  intercourse  with 
the  English  beauty.  But,  to  the  ladies — even 
to  those  who  did  not  regard  the  pair  with 
vindictiveness — the  pair  were  a  bore  and  a 
restraint,  and  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  in 
the  end  their  host  did  not  find  them  so  too. 
Madame  Andreassy's  bitter  tongue  had  a  cease- 
less gibe  at  their  intention,  be  they  absent  or 
present.  'Milady  Eve  has  gone  to  bed,'  I 
heard  her  inform  Navarrenx  one  evening  in  the 
smoking-room,  as  he  squatted  at  her  little 
feet,  smoking  with  ecstatically  upturned  eyes 
each  half-finished  cigarette  as  she  handed  it  to 
him.  'You  saw  her  leave  just  now  in  the  mid- 
dle of  cette  ch^re  Nasha's  pretty  Spanish  song 
— ^''Besito.''  Milord  Adam  went  after  her  to 
light  the  candles.  Through  the  door  I  saw 
them;    I  saw  him  plant  a  great  kiss  there,  on 

65 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

the  nape  of  her  neck.  It  is  becoming  quite 
indecent,'  said  the  Levantine,  viciously  twist- 
ing (as  no  one  was  within  sight  but  myself)  a 
lock  of  the  chevalier's  black  hair. 

"Next  day — the  last — Lady  Cosmo  pleaded  a 
headache,  and  would  not  come  down  at  all.  In 
the  evening,  as  I  issued  from  my  room  at 
dinner-time,  I  collided  with  Cosmo,  who  was 
emerging  from  his  wife's  apartment:  we  were 
both  located  in  the  same  corridor  in  a  side 
wing  overlooking  the  garden.  He  was  march- 
ing along  very  absently,  a  smile  and  the  note 
of  a  song  on  his  lip;  his  cheek  was  flushed. 
He  stepped  back  from  contact  with  me,  and 
seemed  to  fall  awake  from  some  glorious 
dream. 

"  'My  God,  Marshfield,'  he  said  in  an  altered 
voice — 'my  God,  how  I  do  love  that 
woman  .  .  .    !' 

"The  repast  that  night,  perhaps  by  reason  of 
Lady  Cosmo's  absence,  was  the  most  exuber- 
antly mirthful  I  had  yet  known  even  in  that 
jovial  house.  Even  before  the  circulation  of 
the  champagne  (which,  in  the  usual  French 
style,  appeared  late,  just  before  dessert)  the 
gaiety  of  the  party  was  great ;  then  it  became 
boisterous,  and  the  talk,  at  all  times  free  round 
that  table,  such  as  fully  justified  Lady  Cosmo's 
retirement. 

"M.  de  Sourdes  was  in  high  spirits  at  the 

66 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

announced  prospect  of  a  break  in  the  weather, 
and,  like  a  mettled  steed  confined  overlong  to 
stables  on  high  diet,  in  a  rare  state  of  physical 
exuberance.  His  great  laugh  rang  out  and 
made  the  glasses  tingle,  Cosmo,  however, 
was  in  a  dangerous  mood.  Those  that  knew 
him  less  well  might  have  accused  him  of  having 
what  the  French  call  une  pointe  de  vin;  but, 
whatever  the  cause  of  the  secret  intoxication 
that  fired  his  eye,  he  alone  of  the  noisy  com- 
pany— excepting  of  course  myself — was  that 
night  sober  in  the  accepted  sense  when  dessert 
came  round. 

"As  for  Madame  Andreassy,  if  I  suspected  her 
of  entertaining  divers  minor  devils  before,  I  can 
vouch  she  seemed  possessed  of  Lucifer  himself 
then — and  infernally  pretty  she  looked,  too. 
Some  of  her  attentions,  these  languorous  and 
mysterious,  she  bestowed  upon  the  cavalier  at 
her  side,  whose  pale  face  seemed  almost  death- 
like in  contrast  with  the  somewhat  heated 
countenances  around,  but  whose  long  and  white 
fingers  made  as  good  play  with  cup  and  beaker 
as  the  best  of  them.  But  Cosmo,  opposite  to 
her,  was  as  usual  her  butt,  the  mark  for  her 
shrillest  gibes,  her  most  daring  mockery.  He 
met  them  with  imperturbable,  if  insolent,  good 
humour,  underlying  which  I  felt — how  shall  I 
describe  it? — a  sort  of  deadly  purpose,  ready  to 
spring,  yet  biding  its  time. 

67 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

"The  servants  withdrew;  the  ladies  lingered; 
the  Vicomte,  his  handsome  face  ominously 
crimsoned,  passed  the  wine  and  called  for 
healths. 

'"'''' Ah  qa!  A  little  more  energy,  you  there! 
Madame,  a  glass  of  wine  to  the  most  beautiful 
eyes  in  the  world!  Milord,  empty  me  that 
glass  a  little  quicker  than  that.  Mon  Colonel, 
just  you  fill  Milord's  glass,  please;  we  are 
going  to  drink  to  ces  dames. ' 

"  'Pardon,'  said  Cosmo,  lying  negligently 
back  in  his  chair,  as  all  the  men  rose  with  a 
half -tipsy  shout  of  approval.  ''Pardon,  you  will 
excuse  me:  a  matter  of  principle,  my  dear 
host.  I  have  drunk  enough  to  ces  dames  in  my 
life.  At  present  and  for  the  future  I  drink 
only  to  my  wife. ' 

"The  slight  emphasis  on  the  words  ces  dames 
could,  by  any  one  disposed  to  see  it  in  an 
implied  meaning,  be  taken  as  a  piece  of 
supreme  impertinence.  Everybody  paused, 
some  with  glasses  arrested  midway  to  their 
lips,  some  amused,  some  curious,  some  inclined 
to  be  angry — Madame  Andreassy,  her  small 
head  craned  forward,  her  eyes  fixed  as  you  may 
see  a  lovely  little  viper  poised  for  the  dart. 

"  '  I  drink, '  said  Cosmo,  who  now  rose  to  his 
feet  and  swung  slowly  a  brimming  glass  with 
a  kind  of  suppressed  fierceness,  'I  drink  to  My 
Lady.' 

68 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

"He  drained  it  to  the  last  drop,  set  it  down, 
and  sent  his  eyes  round  the  tables — steel  blue, 
with  contracted  pupils,  challenging. 

''  ''Voila  qui  est  fort,'  said  the  Levantine,  at 
last  breaking  the  silence.  '  Lady  Cosmo  must 
be  proud,  my  faith,  to  have  such  a  paladin  for 
her  knight !  Yet,  in  these  days  can  be  gallant 
that  way  who  will.'  She  went  on  speaking 
with  loud  intent  to  Navarrenx^  and  shrugging 
her  audacious  shoulders:  'An  Englishman, 
above  all:  it  can  cost  him  nothing  but  the 
trouble  to  say  the  words.  It  is  not  the  fashion 
now  with  Englishmen  to  consider  their  words 
worth  maintaining.  .  .  .  Now,  in  olden  days 
a  man  who  would  exalt  his  wife  at  the  expense 
of  other  women — ah,  then  it  was  more  serious! 
He  would  have  thought  twice  about  it.  .  .  . ' 

"There  was  an  indescribable  uproar  upon 
this,  the  spell  of  surprise  at  Cosmo's  curious 
behaviour  being  broken:  high  notes  of  femi- 
nine protest,  the  loud  laughter  of  a  few  men, 
the  mock  anger  of  others,  and  the  loud 
voice  of  M.  de  Sourdes  from  the  end  of 
the  table,  accompanied  by  thumps  of  his  great 
fist. 

"  'Jarnidieu!  I  do  not  exactly  say  I  am 
with  you,  my  good  Cosmo.  I  have  too  much 
of  the  temper  of  my  great  ancestor  for  that, 
ventre  saint-gris!  But  I  can  admire  you  for  it, 
and  by  my  soul,  I  do — ,eJi,  Mesdames,  do  not 

69 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

tear  my  eyes  out — ha,  ha,  ha!  One  may 
admire  without  itnita.tmg,  Jarnicofon/  I  have 
a  large  heart  and  the  devil * 


<(■ 


'In  the  midst  of  this  hubbub  Navarrenx 
slowly  subsided  into  his  seat  and  fell  to  dissect- 
ing a  slice  of  pineapple  upon  his  plate,  with 
heavy  lids  cast  down  and  the  greatest  nicety 
possible.  Madame  Andreassy  shot  a  sidelong 
look  at  him,  and  her  nostrils  quivered.  Cosmo 
still  of  the  whole  company  remained  standing, 
waiting  as  if  eager  to  speak,  but  unwilling  that 
his  words  should  be  lost ;  and  Madame  called 
attention  to  his  attitude  with  a  small,  vindic- 
tive, pointed  forefinger. 

"  'Silence,  if  you  please.  Messieurs  et 
Mesdames!  Let  the  model  husband  speak 
once  more — if  it  is  not  very  amusing,  it  may  be 
instructive  for  us  poor  people — Well,  Milord 
of  the  fine  phrases?' 

"  'Madame,'  said  Cosmo,  his  countenance  lit 
by  an  extraordinary  joyousness,  'you  spoke  of 
olden  days — the  fine  olden  days  when  a  knight 
could  maintain  his  lady's  supremacy  at  the 
point  of  his  lance.  They  were  good  times,  you 
think  ...  so  do  I.  A  man  could  then  show 
what  his  love  meant,  to  the  shedding  of  his 
blood  ....  or,  better  still,  the  blood  of  others. 
Ladies  could  judge  of  the  value  of  their  lover's 
devotion.  But  are  we  now  really  so  degener- 
ate in  this  house  of  the  great  Vert-Galant's  son 

70 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

as  you  seem  to  think? — I  cannot  believe  it. 
We  cannot,  it  is  true,  tilt  with  lance  and  mace ; 
but  cannot  we  wield  the  sword?  ...  I  say 
that  I  drink  to  My  Lady  as  the  fairest  and  first 
of  women.  I  am  ready  to  uphold  my  word, 
and,  gentlemen,  I  challenge  you  to  drink  the 
toast !  Are  there  no  cavaliers  round  this  table 
ready  to  maintain  their  lady's  fairness  as  I  do 
mine?' 

"Again  his  eye  ranged  the  table,  passing 
over  many  an  astounded  face  to  fix  itself  on  the 
bent  black  head  opposite  to  him. 

"  'Chevalier  de  Navarrenx,'  he  cried,  and 
his  voice  rang  like  a  clarion — *beau  Chevalier 
de  Navarrenx,  what  say  you?' 

"Navarrenx  looked  up  with  a  surprised 
countenance;  then,  meeting  Cosmo's  provok- 
ing smile,  he  drew  his  brows  together.  But 
without  giving  him  time  to  speak,  Madame 
Andreassy,  in  a  voice  which  her  excitement 
pitched  almost  to  a  scream,  cried  out — 

"  'M.  de  Navarrenx,  Milord  Cosmo  Cameron 
desires  to  know  if  you  will  take  up  the  glove  in 
the  name  of  any  of  the  ladies  he  has  to-night 
insulted — in  the  name  of  your  neighbour,  for 
example?' 

"It  appeared  to  me  that  the  noted  duellist, 
the  almost  professional  swordsman,  the  man 
who  had  already  more  than  one  human  life  on 
his  conscience,  seemed  annoyed,  and  required 

71 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

a  certain  amount  of  imoustillage  before  making 
up  his  mind  to  take  up  this  singular  and 
irregular  challenge — I  believe,  m.oreover,  he 
had  a  real  liking  for  Cosmo.  But,  with  the 
latter's  mocking  smile  in  front  of  him  and 
his  mistress's  fury  at  his  elbow,  the  issue  was 
inevitable.  Indolently  stretching  his  long 
limbs  as  one  weary  and  discontented,  he  half  rose 
from  his  chair,  bowed  profoundly  to  Madame 
Andreassy,  and  then  nodded  across  the  table 
at  Cosmo,  who  let  himself  instantly  fall  back, 
on  his  seat  with  a  subdued  cry  of  triumph. 

"  'Bravo! — so  that  is  arranged  at  last!  Ah, 
Madame,  if  you  knew  how  thankful  I  am! 
How  nicely  you  have  helped  me  out  of  the 
problem  I  was  turning  over !  Sourdes,  if  your 
blood  does  not  lie — and  blood  like  yours  could 
not — we  shall  give  you  to-night  an  entertain- 
ment after  your  own  heart,  I  am  sure.  A 
tournament  in  your  coiir  d'honneur.' 

"  'To-night?'  quoth  the  Vicomte,  in  goggle- 
eyed  amazement.  '  Tudieii,  how  you  are  going 
it !     A  little  affair  of  this  kind ' 


(< 


'Must  be  settled  at  once,'  interrupted 
Cosmo,  who  added,  including  us  all  in  that 
irresistible  smile  of  his  which  made  him  look 
for  the  moment  as  candid  and  innocent  as  a 
child,  'because,  you  understand,  if  my  wife 
knew,  she  would  not  let  me  see  it  out.' 

"Navarrenx  looked  at  his  host  resignedly, 

72 


GUESTS   OF   THE  WOLFMASTER 

and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  Vicomte 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  'Cosmo,  my  friend,'  he  cried,  'you  are  a 
veritable  madman — this  won't  do!'  But  his 
eyes  sparkled  in  his  inflamed  countenance. 

"  'Bah,  it  must  do,  my  dear  Vicomte.  M. 
de  Navarrenx  has  no  objection — have  you. 
Chevalier?  Well,  then,  it  is  a  spectacle  we 
give  to  these  ladies  to  amuse  them  after  these 
dull  days.     Settled,  is  it  not?'  " 

"And  so  it  was  settled,"  said  Marshfield. 
"If  Cosmo  had  not  been  like  a  madman  that 
night,  as  Sourdes  said ;  if  that  excellent  gentle- 
man himself,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, had  not  been  pretty  considerably  tipsy, 
and  if  Navarrenx  had  not  been  the  fool  of  that 
little  Greek  devil,  such  a  reckless  piece  of  busi- 
ness could  never  have  been  planned,  much  less 
carried  out. '  * 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming  to  the 
duel,"  said  I.  "You  have  a  way  of  spreading 
your  stories  which  even  to  my  practised 
patience  is  a  little  trying.  Well,  now,  what 
next?" 

Marshfield  laughed,  not  ill-pleased  at  my 
eagerness. 

"The  story  is  worth  hearing,"  he  declared 
confidently,    and    added;     "One     last     detail 

73 


ty 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

before  I  come  to  the  climax.  While  M.  de 
Sourdes,  having  rung  the  bell,  roared  out 
orders  to  his  servants,  while  the  ladies  whis- 
pered and  the  men  wondered,  and  Cosmo 
inhaled  a  cigarette  with  his  eyes  turned  to  the 
goddesses  and  cupids  of  the  ceiling,  Madame 
Andreassy  suddenly  laid  her  jewelled  hand  on 
Navarrenx's  sleeve  and  tightened  it  there  like 
a  little  claw.     I  bent  to  listen,  and  heard — 

"  'Navarrenx^'  she  whispered,  7«  vas  me  le 
tuerf 

"He  raised  his  eyebrow  nonchalantly,  and 
turned  to  his  wine  again. 

"The  scene  outside,  ten  minutes  later,  was 
one  which  would  be  best  reproduced  by  your 
modern  draughtsman  in  counterchanged  black 
and  white.  The  storm  had  been  followed  by 
a  dead  calm,  a  complete  anticyclone.  The  air 
was  as  still  as  in  a  closed  room.  The  world  lay 
silent  under  its  thick  mantle  of  snow ;  tmder 
the  three-quarter  moon  riding  high — it  was 
then  about  ten  o'clock — everything  in  the  uni- 
verse was  dazzling  white,  or,  by  contrast,  of 
densest  black,  save  for  the  touch  of  colour 
given  by  the  lighted  windows,  yellow  upon  the 
black  walls,  and  the  eight  lanterns  held  by  four 
piqueurs  in  the  middle  of  the  court  of  honour, 
which  had  that  very  morning  been  cleared  of 
snow  and  neatly  sanded,  for  the  exercise  of  the 
stud  under  the  Vicomte's  own  eyes. 

74 


GUESTS   OF   THE   WOLFMASTER 

•''These  huntsmen,  summoned  in  haste  upon 
an  unknown  errand  (to  be  on  the  safe  side  with 
a  master  who  was  particular  about  smartness 
and  entertained  right  old-fashioned  notions 
upon  the  treatment  of  dependents) ,  had  donned 
the  correct  attire  of  their  calling ;  and  in  the 
glare  of  their  own  illumination,  cut  out  upon 
the  white  background,  they  stood  forth,  fan- 
tastic figures,  belted,  with  hunting-knife  on 
thigh  and  the  great  horn  saltirewise.  They 
had,  no  doubt,  already  seen  many  odd  things  in 
their  days  at  La  Motte-Herbault,  but  they 
must  have  been  pretty  well  astonished  at  the 
procession  which  presently  marched  down  the 
marble  steps. 

"First  the  Vicomte  and  a  certain  Colonel  of 
Spahis,  the  latter  armed  with  a  stick,  the 
former  carrying  the  swords ;  both  buttoned  up 
in  fur  coats,  as  were  also  Messieurs  Paradol  and 
Marshfield,  the  appointed  seconds,  who  came 
next.  Lastly,  coatless  and  bareheaded,  but 
with  cloaks  thrown  over  their  shoulders,  Cosmo 
and  Navarrenx,  each  with  a  cigarette  between 
his  lips,  followed  leisurely  together,  more  like 
friends  than  men  who  were  about  to  snatch  at 
each  other's  life. 

"The  rest  of  the  gentlemen  flocked  out  to  see 
the  sport,  but  remained  discreetly  at  the  top  of 
the  steps.  As  I  turned  to  look  back,  I  saw  an 
indistinct    kaleidoscopic    medley    of    shifting 

75 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

silhouettes,  moving  behind  the  high  windows 
of  the  hall :  our  fair  companions  were  pressing 
their  heads  together  close  to  the  panes  to  watch 
this  nineteenth-century  tilt  at  sharps  'for  the 
love  of  a  lady. ' 

"What  followed  seems  to  me  like  one  of 
those  vivid  dreams,  that  sort  of  dream  which 
one  remembers  keenly  in  waking  life.  .  .  . 
Under  the  directing  cane  of  the  Colonel  (who, 
I  thought,  did  not  walk  very  straight,  but  who 
nevertheless  performed  quite  regularly  his 
duties  as  master  of  the  camp),  the  four  hunts- 
men spread  out,  each  holding  his  couple  of  lan- 
terns shoulder  high.  Then  M,  de  Sourdes 
called  out  cheerfully,  'Messieurs!'  Upon 
which  Navarrenx  quietly  removed  his  cloak, 
and  Cosmo  tossed  his  on  one  side.  Then  both 
advanced  to  take  up  the  weapons  that  were 
handed  to  them  crosswise,  stepped  back,  and 
confronted  each  other — the  Frenchman,  with 
an  easy  bow  and  a  restrained  but  intensely 
courteous  and  cavalierlike  flourish  of  his  blade, 
which  flashed  flax-blue  in  the  moonlight; 
Cosmo,  with  a  proud,  vigorous,  English  mili- 
tary salute  of  the  sword. 

"Ah,  if  it  had  only  been  a  claymore  that  he 
held,  I  perhaps  would  not  have  felt  the  tight- 
ening which,  I  don't  mind  confessing,  then 
seized  me  by  the  throat.  No  doubt  M.  de 
Sourdes  would  never  have  consented  to  such 

76 


GUESTS   OF  THE  WOLFMASTER 

an  irregular  duel  under  his  aegis  had  he  really 
understood  his  Scottish  friend,  his  fierceness, 
his  foolhardiness,  and  his  absolute  ignorance 
of  the  conventions  of  that  deadly  art  upon 
which  his  life  now  hung. 

"The  clock  in  the  roof  began  to  strike  ten; 
somehow  or  other,  as  by  tacit  accord,  every 
one  waited  till  the  last  vibration  of  the  last 
stroke  had  died  away.  Then,  clearing  his 
throat,  the  Colonel  extended  his  stick,  over 
which  the  sword  points  crossed,  and,  after  a 
second,  called  out: — 

•'  'Allez,  Messieurs/  " 

Here  Marshfield  paused,  a  little  tantalisingly. 
We  were  then  in  darkness  (amid  the  bushes  of 
a  side  walk) ;  the  tip  of  the  cigar  he  was  reviv- 
ing glowed  fitfully, 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "I  said,  as  I  was 
watching  your  friend  this  afternoon,  that  there 
was  a  good  deal  in  fencing.  Beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  Manuel  de  Navarrenx, 
practised  duellist  though  he  was,  would  have 
been  massacred  in  three  seconds  but  for  the 
marvellous  precision  which  I  understand  now 
(after  what  I  have  seen  to-day  again)  must 
become  as  a  man's  second  nature  before  he  can 
hope  to  resist  a  certain  kind  of  opponent. 

77 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"Cosmo  was  no  fencer,  though  he  had  fleshed 
his  sword  on  more  than  one  occasion  during 
his  brief  soldier's  career.  But,  in  earnest,  he 
was  a  tiger.  Ah,  I  take  it,  M.  de  Navarrenx, 
who  had  dipped  his  point  into  some  twenty 
French  bodies  and  one  Italian  already,  must 
have  been  astonished  at  the  truly  infernal 
onslaught  of  the  inexpert  Englishman!  He 
first,  indeed,  broke  ground  for  three  paces 
beneath  it ;  then,  as  if  recovering  his  wits  and 
coming  to  a  sudden  decision,  stood  firm  again 
to  meet,  with  unerring  parries  only,  the  tor- 
nado of  iron,  the  shower  of  deadly  stabs  hurled 
at  him,  until  the  flashes  of  the  blades,  blue  or 
yellow  as  they  caught  moon  or  candle  light, 
with  now  and  then  a  red  spark  of  bruised 
steel,  became  bewildering  to  my  starting  eyes. 
Even  to  him  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death : 
the  ground  was  bad,  the  light  was  bad ;  that 
mattered  not  for  Cosmo  in  his  mad  ignorance, 
but  the  swordsman  of  twenty  years'  experience 
knew  too  much,  I  believe,  to  risk  an  attack  or 
even  a  riposte  in  front  of  such  reckless  fury. 

"And  yet  it  was  more  than  mere  fury  with 
my  friend:  it  was  all  the  gorgeousness  of  his 
happiness,  of  his  pride,  that  was  at  stake  in 
this  insane  freak — I  really  seem  to  have  lived 
in  his  brain  at  that  moment  of  intense  excite- 
ment, as  with  hissing  breath  he  furiously 
sought  to  pierce  the  impassable  circles  of  his 

78 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

antagonist's  defence— it  was  the  woman  now 
waiting  for  him  in  the  distant  room,  it  was 
years  more  of  her  love,  years  more  of  that  per- 
fection on  earth !  I  felt  all  that  with  him,  and 
would  then,  I  swear,  have  given  my  hand  to 
see  the  Navarrenx  hurled  down,  with  Cosmo's 
swordhilt  upon  his  chest.  .  .  .  But,  as  the 
great  Bazancourt  has  it,  'principles  in  arms' 
will  prevail. 

"Well,  Navarrenx  did  not  risk  an  attack,  as 
I  said,  but  he  found  a  loophole  for  a  riposte, 
— a  ferocious  one !     I  was  on  the  right  of  my 
man:    I  saw  him   stop   short   as  if   shot,    the 
Frenchman's  blade  half -buried  under  his  arm, 
as  it  seemed.      The  Colonel  bounded  forward 
and  laid  his    cane    against    the    sword    that 
Cosmo  was  brandishing  now  above  his  head. 
Then  only   did   Navarrenx  attempt    to  with- 
draw his  blade   and   step  back  just    out    of 
distance,  where  he  remained,  calm,  quite  cor- 
rect, his  point  on  the  ground,     I  ran  up — my 
hands  were  very  cold  and  my  face  was  burning. 
I  saw  a  broad  black  patch  appear  on  Cosmo's 
shirt,  spreading  rapidly  wider  and  wider  down 
to  the  hip.     He  did  not  fall,  nor  speak ;   but  I 
heard  him  gnash  his  teeth. 

"  ^Palsambleu!'  said  M.  de  Sourdes,  approach- 
ing likewise  and  mopping  his  face. 

"  ''  Saperlotte r  said  the  Colonel,  now,  I  fancy, 
quite  sobered. 

79 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

"And  then,  together,  struck  (a  little  late,  I 
thought)  by  the  same  idea — 

"  'And  no  surgeon!' 

"At  that  moment  Cosmo's  sword  escaped 
from  his  hand.  I  stood  close  by  him,  waiting 
for  him  to  fall.  Yet  he  stood.  Only  I  fancied 
he  swayed,  and  so  I  caught  him  under  the 
arm. 

"  'Badly  hurt?'  I  asked. 

"'Think  not,'  he  said,  'but  beaten ! '—this 
with  a  snarl — 'I  can't  go  on,' 

"  'Bah,  what  of  that?'  cried  I.  'My  God,  I 
thought  you  were  dead!  Dead — think  of 
it  .  .  .  and  of  her!'  I  went  on,  helping  him 
towards  the  steps,  but  hardly  knowing  what  I 
was  saying. 

"  'By  heaven,  yes!'  muttered  he,  panting 
still.  'What  a  fool  I  must  have  been  to  risk  it! 
It  was  a  narrow  thing,  Marshfield.'  Then 
with  an  angry  laugh  that  sounded  most  odd 
from  a  man  besmeared  with  blood  as  he  was : 
'I  did  think,  though,  I  was  going  to  get  in  at 
last.  But  not  a  bit  of  it — stopped  dead!  I 
feel  as  if  I  was  run  through,  clean  open  .  .  . 
yet  I  can  breathe  all  right. ' 

' '  Here  the  Vicomte  caught  him  on  the  other 
side.  In  this  way  we  slowly  marched  into 
the  hall  in  procession  again,  principals  and 
seconds,  huntsmen  and  all. 

"Some  of  the  ladies  fled  before  the  blood- 

80 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

covered  vision.  Others  hung  on  our  flank, 
holding  on  to  each  other  in  tremulation. 
Madame  Andreassy,  seated  amid  the  bearskins 
of  a  great  divan  that  occupied  the  middle  of  the 
hall,  watched  us  with  affected  indifference ;  but 
there  was  a  sullen  drawing  in  of  her  mouth. 
Indeed,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that,  although 
defeated  in  the  court  of  arms,  Cosmo  was  still 
the  hero  of  the  moment :  people  were,  uncon- 
sciously, so  grateful  to  him  for  not  being  dead 
after  all,  and  he  looked  so  handsome  and 
dauntless  in  his  bloody  shirt!  And  when  the 
party  approached  her  and  she  actually  had  to 
arise  and  give  place  to  the  wounded  man, 
according  to  the  directions  of  Sourdes,  now 
intent  only  on  his  friend's  behalf,  the  little 
woman  who  had  had  murder  in  her  heart 
glanced  blackly  enough  at  the  servant  who  had 
so  incompletely  executed  her  mandate.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Navarrenx  was  gazing  with 
much  interest,  but  without  a  trace  of  vindic- 
tiveness,  at  his  handiwork. 

"If,  as  Cosmo  had  fondly  imagined,  it  had 
been  a  narrow  thing  for  his  opponent,  he  him- 
self had  only  escaped  death  by  a  hair's- 
breadth.  Although  not  really  dangerous,  it 
was  a  wonderful  wound!  Navarrenx 's  riposte, 
fit  to  run  through  a  Goliath,  had,  it  was  seen, 
entered  under  the  breast ;  but,  slipping  on  the 
ribs  and  tearing  between  flesh  and  bone,  it  had 

3i 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

but  ploughed  a  deep  and  gaping  furrow  half- 
way round  the  athletic  torso. 

*'A  kind  of  whistle,  expressive  at  the  same 
time  of  astonishment  and  relief,  came  to 
Sourdes's  lips  as  the  case  revealed  itself. 

"  '  Tudieu!  friend  Cosmo,  a  rogue  boar  could 
not  have  unstitched  you  in  better  style.  But 
anything  better  than  broaching  the  barrel,  eh ! 
aha !  Two  fellows  have  gone,  grand  gallop,  for 
the  doctor ' 

"  'Hang  the  doctor!'  said  Cosmo  promptly. 
'Let  Mathieu  here' — pointing  to  the  head 
piqueur,  who  was  still  holding  the  lantern  at 
his  head — 'do  the  trick.  I'll  trust  his  skill 
sooner  than  any  Pill-box  or  Sawbones.  I 
saw  him  mend  up  your  bitch  Bella  not  five 
days  ago,  and  the  creature  is  fit  as  a  fiddle 
already. ' 

"The  old  huntsman  grunted  approval.  At  a 
sign  from  his  master,  who  also  approved  with 
one  of  his  great  'ahas,'  he  ran  ofE  to  procure 
his  tools,  and,  on  his  return,  in  as  business- 
like a  manner  as  if  one  of  his  own  hounds  had 
been  in  question,  screwing  up  his  countenance 
into  a  comical  twist,  set  about  his  task  with 
rude  but  skilful  fingers. 

"In  the  reaction  from  the  first  emotion  which 
every  one  had  felt,  if  in  different  degrees, 
many  of  the  men  had  fallen  back  into  some- 
thing of   their  former   gaiety.      Monsieur  de 

82 


GUESTS   OF   THE   WOLFMASTER 

Sourdes,  his  legs  apart,  his  arms  akimbo,  stood 
watching  the  operation  with  judicial  interest; 
now  making  a  suggestion  full  of  sporting 
flavour,  now  laughing  portentously  at  some 
joke  of  his  own.  Cosmo,  half  lying  on  the 
sofa,  propping  up  his  livid  head  (he  had  been 
bleeding  like  a  pig)  with  his  hand,  looked  into 
space,  unheeding,  absorbed  it  seemed  in  the 
bitterness  of  his  defeat,  and  apparently  callous 
to  the  pain  he  was  enduring.  Except  Madame 
Andreassy,  the  ladies  had  now  all  retired ;  she 
stood  at  the  further  end  of  the  great  hall. 
Near  her  was  Navarrenx,  also  apparently  lost 
in  reflection,  for  he  did  not  speak.  Behind 
them,  again,  an  eager  group  of  servants,  won- 
dering, no  doubt,  at  the  strange  manners  and 
customs  of  the  masters. 

"Just  as  the  huntsman  was  about  to  apply  a 
cool  bandage  to  his  neatly-concluded  piece  of 
work,  there  came  on  the  stairs  a  sound  of  open- 
ing doors,  of  rustling  garments  and  flying  foot- 
steps; the  servants  parted  hastily,  and  Lady 
Cosmo  burst  in  upon  us. 

"Enveloped  in  a  great  loose  white  cloth 
dressing-gown,  an  ivory  brush  in  one  hand, 
her  hair  unbraided,  falling  in  royal  masses 
around  her,  she  had  evidently  rushed  off  just 
as  she  was,  upon  the  first  alarm.  She  swept 
upon  one  side  the  burly  form  of  the  Vicomte, 
who  hastened  to  meet  her,  full  of  benevolent 

83 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

reassurances,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  knees 
beside  her  husband. 

"  'Cosmo,  beloved!' 

"The  ring  of  anguish  in  her  voice  I  shall 
never  forget;  to  the  crowd  of  those  men 
around,  who  took  most  things  in  life,  and  love 
above  all,  so  flippantly,  it  must  have  been  a 
revelation.  Cosmo  raised  himself,  and  the 
colour  rushed  to  his  face  again, 

'*  '  It  is  nothing, '  he  said  earnestly — 'nothing. ' 

"  'Wait,  Madame,'  interposed  the  piqueur, 
raising  the  bandage  from  the  bloody  flank, 
while  a  smile  of  conscious  pride  displayed  his 
toothless  gums — 'only  in  the  meat,  see,  and  all 
well  sewn  up.  .   .  . ' 

"  'Idiot!'  cried  Cosmo,  with  furious  gesture, 
wrapping  himself  up  in  the  bearskin — Though 
he  had  lost  a  deal  of  it,  he  had  plenty  of  hot 
blood  left  in  him.  But  the  well-meaning 
brutality  of  the  old  fellow  had  carried  convic- 
tion ;  Lady  Cosmo  drew  a  quick  gasping  breath, 
rose  to  her  feet,  straightened  herself,  and 
looked  searchingly  round  the  hall  till  her  eyes 
rested  upon  Navarrenx  the  impassible,  with 
the  sword  still  in  his  hand.  She  then  brought 
her  gaze,  dark  with  the  recent  terror,  laden 
with  a  burning  reproach,  back  to  her  husband. 

"  'Cosmo,*  she  said,  in  a  deep,  vibrating 
voice, 'is  our  life  together  so  slight  a  thing  to 
you  that  you  can  play  with  it  thus?' 

84 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

"He  hung  his  head  like  a  chidden  child. 
And  in  the  almost  breathless  pause  of  wonder 
and  admiration  which  this  woman  in  her 
statuesque  grandeur,  with  all  her  living  beauty 
and  her  love-passion,  imposed  upon  us,  the 
laugh  of  Madame  Andreassy,  who  now  pressed 
forward  to  stare  insolently  upon  the  scene, 
sounded  with  vulgar  incongruity.  Lady  Cosmo 
turned. 

"  'You  laugh,"  she  said;  'to  you,  Madame,  it 
is  amusing  that  a  woman  should  go  near  to  lose 
all  that  makes  up  life  for  her !  What  indeed 
can  you,  or  such  as  you,  understand  by  the  love 
of  an  honest  woman  for  her  husband?' 

"Madame  Andreassy  became  scarlet. 
Thrusting  her  face  forward,  and  in  the  aban- 
donment of  sudden  fury  planting  her  hands  on 
her  hips  like  a  very  fishwife,  all  the  hidden 
depths  of  her  native  Levantine  mud  stirred 
within  her  came  as  it  were  frothing  to  her 
lips. 

"  'Honest  woman!'  she  cried  with  a  screech. 
'Rumour  whispers  not  always  so  honest,  nor 
was  the  present  lover  always  the  husband,  my 
lady!' 

"There  fell  for  a  second  a  terrible  silence,  as 
if  every  one  were  gathering  the  full  enormity 
of  this  irretrievable  speech.  Then  Cosmo 
wrenched  himself  half  up  from  the  sofa;  his 
face  was  working  with  such  an  anger  as  I  had 

85 


MARSHFIELD    THE   OBSERVER 

not  yet  seen  on  it,  but  he  could  not  bring  out  a 
word ;  there  was  a  sort  of  rattle  in  his  throat. 
The  Vicomte  blushed  to  the  top  of  his  bald 
head.  Navarrenx  frowned.  But  Lady  Cosmo, 
erect  and  stately,  never  wavered. 

"With  a  motion  full  of  dignity,  she  depre- 
cated any  interference  from  her  host,  and  look- 
ing down  from  her  magnificent  height  upon  the 
creature  who  had  insulted  her : 

"  'A  woman  who  has  sinned,  I  may  be, 
Madame, '  she  said,  in  a  voice  as  clear  and  true 
as  a  perfect  bell,  and  to  which  her  slight  Eng- 
lish accent  in  French  gave  an  additional  touch 
of  sweetness.  'And  my  husband  was  indeed 
my  lover  first,  when  he  could  be  nothing  more. 
But  if  I  have  sinned  once,  Madame,  it  was  for 
love — not  for  amusement.  That  no  doubt  is 
what  you  cannot  understand.  And  if  such 
love  brings  a  happiness,  a  happiness  which  a 
woman  such  as  you,  who  in  love  know  nothing 
but  the  love  of  yourself  and  who  light-heartedly 
risk  your  own  lover's  life  to  prop  your  vanity, 
can  never  conceive ;  if  it  brings  joys  beyond  all 
words,  it  brings  also  pain,  ever  present  and 
poignant — the  pain  of  fear,  the  fear  of  loss.  If 
I  have  sinned  then — a  subject  with  you  for 
mockery — and  if  I  deemed  myself  yet  unfor- 
given,  the  anguish  I  have  just  endured,  those 
years  of  terror  I  lived  between  my  room  and 
this  place,  during  the  time  it  took  me  to  run 

86 


GUESTS   OF   THE   WOLFMASTER 

down  here  to-night — such  agony  must  surely 
have  expiated !' 

"She  raised  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  where, 
as  the  impression  returned  upon  her,  great 
beads  had  gathered. 

"  'Olivia!'  cried  Cosmo,  his  voice  breaking 
on  a  kind  of  sob;  then  to  me,  growling  like  a 
wild  cat,  'Marshfield,  you  fool,  let  me  go!' 

"Lady  Cosmo  seized  her  heavy  hair  with  both 
hands  and  once  more  glanced  upon  us;  the  odd 
group  of  huntsmen  gazing  at  her  with  stolid 
sympathy;  the  amazed,  whispering  servants; 
the  gentlemen  who,  for  an  instant  shaken  from 
their  flippancy  and  scepticism  of  mere  men  of 
pleasure,  watched  and  hearkened  in  uncon- 
scious admiration ;  and  she  seemed  to  wake  up 
suddenly,  to  awaken  to  her  position.  Her  face 
and  throat  became  suffused  with  crimson,  and 
with  a  gesture  all  womanly,  a  shame  almost 
divine,  she  sank  again  beside  her  husband  and 
hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  He  flung  his  arm 
around  her,  and  over  her  bent  head  shot  at  us 
a  look  as  proud  again  and  as  defiant  as  when 
he  had  proposed  the  toast. 

"  'Eh!  by  the  blood  of  my  great  ancestor,' 
shouted  Sourdes,  'that  is  a  woman!  Milady' 
— laying  a  hand  kindly  and  reverently  upon  her 
shoulder — 'such  love  as  that  which  you  have  so 
nobly  spoken  of  is  a  very  beautiful  thing. 
But  he  returns  it  to  you,  your  husband;   and 

87 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

well — allez!  It  was  to  uphold  you  as  the  fair- 
est of  all  women  that  he  staked  to-night  that 
life  that  is  so  precious  to  you.  Ah,  Vheiireux 
coqiiin!  We  ought  not  to  have  allowed  it. 
But  all  is  well  that  ends  well,  as  your  "divine 
Williams"  says.  With  all  our  admiration  for 
you,  we  could  not  be  so  ungallant,  we  thought, 
as  to  drink  his  toast.  And  he  ioVi^X—jarnico- 
ton!  fought.  Milady,  shed  his  blood  like  apreux 
chevalier  of  old,  to  maintain  his  word  and  his 
lady.  And,  veiitre-saint-gris!'  cried  the  noble 
gentleman,  fairly  enkindled  by  the  recollection 
of  the  past  no  less  than  by  the  present  power 
of  Lady  Cosmo's  beauty,  'we  recognise  that  he 
was  right.  What  we  have  just  seen  has  con- 
vinced us.  Milady  Cosmo  Cameron  is  the 
queen  of  women,  and  as  such  we  shall  toast 
her  now — what  do  you  say.  Messieurs?' 

"Infected  by  his  enthusiasm,  moved  too  by 
their  own,  all  the  men  acclaimed  a  loud  con- 
sent (the  more  readily  perhaps  that  none  of 
their  liege  ladies  were  then  present  to  witness 
the  defection)  all,  except  Navarrenx,  who  re- 
mained still  motionless  and  dumb.  When,  how- 
ever, Madame  Andreassy,  with  now  jaundiced 
face,  crept  up  to  him  and  plucked  at  his  hand, 
hissing,  'Did  I  not  tell  thee  to  kill  him?'  he 
turned  his  long  eyes  slowly  upon  her;  then, 
without  speaking,  shook  off  her  touch  as  a  man 
might  a  fly  and  advanced  towards  the  couch. 

88 


GUESTS   OF   THE   WOLFMASTER 


i(  (■ 


'Milord,'  he  said,  seeking  Cosmo's  eyes, 
and  as  he  spoke  he  bowed,  and  laid  his  blood- 
stained sword  at  his  feet,  'you  are  wounded,  it 
is  true — it  is  a  marvel  you  are  not  dead.  But 
I  am  vanquished  none  the  less.  Sourdes,  a 
glass  for  me!' 

"As  the  servants  bustled  in  with  the  wine, 
the  Vicomte,  whose  Gallic  blood  seemed  now 
fairly  aflame,  made  a  commanding  gesture  to 
the  piqueurs,  who  unslung  their  horns  and 
ranged  themselves  against  the  wall. 

"  'Allons,  vous  autresja  fanfare  dhonneur!  ' 
he  called  out.  '£l  vous,  Messieurs,  tin  rouge- 
bordr 

"And  as  we  each  raised  our  own  beakerful  of 
ruby,  the  brazen  horns  struck  up  the  old  hunt- 
ing flourish,  the  savage  tune  which  has  been 
handed  down  from  those  hardy  ancient  days 
when  the  gentlemen  of  France  were  more 
commonly  of  the  type  of  our  sturdy  host  him- 
self. And  I  tell  you,  it  has  not  been  given  to 
many  to  be  transported,  as  we  were  that  night, 
right  back  into  the  heart  of  a  bygone  century. 
The  old  walls  round  us,  unchanged  since  the 
days  of  their  royal  master,  must  have  deemed, 
at  that  splendid,  wild  blast,  which  made  them 
ring  again,  that  the  past  had  risen  before  them 
once  more.  There  moved  the  Vert-Galant 
himself,  surrounded  by  his  gallant  gentlemen 
and  his  huntsmen,  proclaiming,  in  his  most 

89 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

congenial  style,  the  triumph  of  a  grander,  a 
more  perfect  woman  than  even  the  beautiful 
Gabrielle. 

"In  the  midst  of  this  barbaric  clangour, 
through  the  circle  of  excited  drinkers  with  now 
empty  glasses,  yet  uplifted  in  ovation,  in  burst 
the  little  country  doctor,  blue  with  cold,  fussy, 
encrusted  to  the  knees  with  frozen  snow — and 
behold!"  said  Marshfield,  cackling,  "we  were 
back  in  our  fiti-de-siecle  in  double-quick  time. 
I  leave  you  to  guess  his  amazement  at  the 
scene,  and  the  prompt  dispersal  of  all  romantic 
illusion  on  his  appearance.  .  .  .  And  yet  my 
last  mental  picture  of  that  night  was  not  with- 
out picturesqueness: — It  was  the  spectacle  of 
Cosmo's  state  retirement  to  his  apartments, 
supported  upon  one  side  by  the  arm  of  his 
wife,  upon  the  other  by  the  very  hand  that  had 
dealt  him  his  wound.  Madame  Andreassy  had 
disappeared.     I  never  saw  her  again." 


"And  hereupon,"  concluded  my  friend,  giv- 
ing me  one  of  his  slipshod  handshakes,  "I  must 
separate  from  you.  The  story  is  finished  as 
far  as  interest  is  concerned.  I  have  seen  what 
I  wanted  to  see — both  assault  and  combat." 

His  voice  died  away  and  his  form  melted  into 
darkness. 

90 


GUESTS   OF  THE   WOLFMASTER 

Across  the  open  spaces,  over  the  roofs,  upon 
the  wings  of  the  easterly  breeze,  the  distant 
boom  of  Big  Ben  striking  the  eighth  hour 
carried  me  from  the  hunting-box  in  the  depths 
of  Sologne  back  into  the  heart  of  busy,  hum- 
ming London. 


91 


THE  DEVIL'S  WHISPER 


The  Devil's  Whisper 

This  is  the  singular  experience  of  a  certain 
English  student  in  the  noble,  ancient  city  of 
Mainz. 

The  case  is  in  many  ways  curious,  and  may 
be  worth  recording  as  an  unusual  manifestation 
of  the  obscure  mental  disorder  called  Remorse. 
And  the  manner  in  which  the  Englishman 
came,  most  fortuitously,  to  be  made  acquainted 
with  the  drama  in  question,  and  even  to  play 
an  actual  part  in  its  scenes,  is  not  devoid  of 
picturesque  interest. 

During  the  hour  when  it  was  fated  that  his 
path  should  cross  that  of  the  unfortunate  man 
who  had  once  listened  to  the  devil's  whisper 
the  student  was  musing  in  the  dim,  low-ceiled 
wine-room,  well  known  in  Mainz,  at  the  sign  of 
the  "Ducal  Tun."  It  was  a  hot  July  after- 
noon. In  that  cool  chamber — every  decoration 
of  which,  elaborately  quaint,  ponderously 
archaic,  aimed,  in  deference  to  the  national 
bias,  at  adding  romantic  zest  to  the  delight  a 
German  can  pour  out  of  a  long-necked  flask — 
he  was  installed  by  the  small-paned  window 

95 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

which  overlooks  the  cathedral  porch,  a  flagon 
of  Franconian  wine  at  his  elbow,  and  an  open 
book  under  his  dreaming  eyes. 

At  the  University  this  young  man's  studies, 
with  ulterior  views  of  academic  distinction, 
bore  among  other  things  upon  Philology.  But 
the  study  of  languages  was  with  him  a  labour 
of  love,  an  attractive  pursuit ;  he  found  an  ever 
fresh  fascination  in  the  cultivation  of  new 
systems  of  speech.  During  that  summer  the 
energies  of  his  mind  were  altogether  bent  on 
mastering  the  intricacies  of  German  phrase- 
ology. By  favour  of  earlier  circumstances  he 
was  already  a  very  sufficient  adept  in  many 
tongues  of  Latin  root;  he  had,  in  fact,  that 
singular  power,  rare  in  an  Englishman,  of 
assimilating,  by  keenness  of  fancy  and  intel- 
lectual sympathy,  the  spirit  of  other  climes. 
Every  newly  acquired  tittle  of  power  in 
expressing  that  spirit  by  words  and  manners 
was  to  him,  so  to  speak,  what  each  fresh  treas- 
ure is  to  the  collector — a  source  of  subtle  per- 
sonal pride,  with  all  its  attendant  indescribable 
pleasures. 

No  one  perhaps  in  modern  times  realised 
better  the  truth  of  the  historic  saying  of  the 
great  Charles  the  Fifth  of  Austria  and  First  of 
Spain: — "So  many  different  tongues  do  I 
speak,  so  many  different  men  can  I  be." 
Indeed,  the  English  youth,  who,  at  home,  was 

96 


THE    DEVIL'S    WHISPER 

an  undeniable  Briton,  with  a  disposition  some- 
what reticent  and  tincompromising  and  a  ruling 
taste  for  work,  when  he  lived  in  Spain  imbibed 
with  the  sun-rays  and  the  warm-coloured  words 
something  of  the  grandiloquent  mode  of 
thought  and  the  grave  laziness  of  that  happy, 
self-admiring,  easy-living  country. 

In  Italy  he  grew  good-natured  and  demon- 
strative, and  feasted  his  soul  in  the  rippling 
music  of  a  tongue  so  bright  and  clear  as  to 
seem  the  only  natural  speech  of  man  in  happi- 
ness. In  Paris  he  would  become  sceptical, 
fluent,  and  very  precisely  superficial,  and  be 
voted  a  pleasant  companion,  singularly  un- 
English. 

But  the  mighty  German  tongue  was  a  harder 
conquest  to  undertake,  although  the  under- 
graduate was  already  beginning  to  consort 
with  its  Gothic  soul,  and  was  once  again  experi- 
encing the  curious  satisfaction  of  evolving 
brain-pictures  out  of  an  assemblage  of  hitherto 
unknown  sounds.  Some  quatrains  in  the 
"Book  of  Songs"  had  newly  made  his  heart 
beat  with  the  unspeakable  twilight  longing 
which  Heine,  single  among  the  world's  poets, 
has  fixed  by  human  words ;  and  aided  by  his 
imagination,  he  had  already  re-read  in  its  own 
native  music  the  epic  legend  of  Doctor  Faustus. 
But  Teutonic  prose  was  still  fatiguing  to 
unravel ;  and  thus  he  had  yielded  to  musing  on 

97 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

this  sultry  summer  day,  and  abandoned  his 
book — Hoffman's  "Elixir" — at  a  fantastic  but 
terrifyingly  long  sentence. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  the  sole  occupant 
of  the  wine-room.  Presently  there  entered  to 
him  one  whom  he  remembered  having  noticed 
before  about  the  town.  This  man,  lithe  and 
well-built,  though  of  no  great  stature,  had, 
beyond  contest,  a  most  characteristic  presence, 
which  once  seen  could  hardly  be  forgotten. 

His  was  a  face  of  the  most  perfect  masculine 
beauty,  one  to  haunt  the  romantic  fancy,  with 
its  clear-cut  features  and  fiery  dark  eyes,  deeply 
shaded  under  straight  brows,  the  blackness  of 
which  seemed  intense  in  contrast  with  a  sin- 
gularly even  paleness  of  skin,  and  hair  of  dull 
copper  hue.  It  was,  as  the  Englishman 
thought  at  the  first  glance,  a  face  which  the 
best  travelled  man  would  hardly  have  expected 
to  see  out  of  a  picture  by  Vandyck. 

The  stranger,  after  a  vague  salutation,  took 
a  seat  at  a  neighbouring  table,  ordered  wine, 
and  then  proceeded  to  reperuse,  in  lingering 
fashion,  a  letter,  the  contents  of  which  he  was 
evidently  already  master  of.  And,  as  he 
read,  the  student  had  opportunity  to  examine 
and  admire  him  more  particularly. 

It  was  a  noble  countenance  in  repose ;  withal 
apparently  a  sensitive  mirror  of  fleeting  emo- 
tion. 

98 


THE   DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

"Verily  here  is  one  who  must  have  turned 
many  a  woman's  head,"  commented  the 
observing  youth,  and,  as  he  further  marked  the 
smile  that  ever  and  anon  played  on  the  other's 
lips,  settled  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  the 
missive  which  could  give  scope  for  such  drawn- 
out  pleasure  had  been  of  a  certainty  penned  by 
some  woman. 

At  length  the  letter  was  refolded  and 
replaced  on  the  reader's  heart,  who  then  filled 
his  glass  with  wine.  A  shaft  of  sunlight  dart- 
ing over  the  minster  pinnacles  in  through  the 
tavern  window,  broke  itself  in  a  golden  splash 
on  a  corner  of  the  brown  oak  table.  The  man, 
shifting  his  chair,  placed  his  glass  under  the 
sun-shaft;  and  on  the  moment  the  beaker  of 
ruddy  Assmanshaiiser,  in  the  midst  of  the  sur- 
rounding russet  gloom,  assumed  the  glory  of 
some  monstrous  scintillating  ruby. 

Sympathetic  to  the  glow  of  the  wine,  or  so 
the  Englishman  thought,  the  stranger's  eyes 
brightened,  and,  as  he  peered  through  the 
glass,  his  white  teeth  gleamed  again  under  the 
red  cavalier  moustache.  Yet  his  thoughts 
were  not  of  wine,  for  he  toyed  with  the  glass 
without  even  tasting  the  liquid  light.  And 
presently  he  seemed  to  fall  into  a  deeper 
reverie,  while  the  brightness  faded  from  his 
face;  he  rested  his  head  on  one  hand,  and 
with,  what  appeared  a   creeping  melancholy, 

99 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

absently  watched  the  sun-ray  travel  from  the 
glass  along  the  table  until  it  fell  away  and  was 
lost  on  the  dull  floor. 

For  some  time,  from  his  coign  of  vantage, 
the  Englishman  sat  pondering  with  lazy  inter- 
est on  the  circumstances  of  this  silent  com- 
panion. Then  the  deep  throbbing  of  the 
cathedral  bell,  warning  of  the  flight  of  irrepar- 
able time,  reminded  him  of  the  ever-present 
duty.  He  debated  for  a  moment  whether  he 
would  intrude  on  the  stranger's  privacy  and 
amiably  practise  the  German  speech  with  him, 
or  resume  the  unravelling  of  Hoffman's 
incurved  sentences.  The  stranger's  counte- 
nance made  it  seem  possible  that  an  interruption 
to  what  was  clearly  a  dismal  train  of  thought 
might  not  be  unwelcome. 

As  he  hesitated,  the  dreamer,  likewise  roused 
by  the  boom  of  the  clock,  with  a  sigh  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  contemplation  of  his  glass, 
looked  around  in  an  absent  manner,  and 
encountered  the  Englishman's  glance. 

"A  sultry  day,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing  him 
in  German,  with  pretty  civility. 

The  Englishman  made  suitable  reply  in  the 
same  tongue;  but  as  they  exchanged  the 
further  banalities  of  an  opening  conversation 
he  was  struck  by  an  unusual  intonation  in  his 
interlocutor's  speech,  and  began  to  have  doubts 
as  to  his  nationality.     Selecting  his  most  fluent 

lOO 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

and  secure  sentences,  and  delivering  himself 
of  these,  he  noted  presently  a  quick  look  of 
interest,  one  which  almost  suggested  anx- 
iety, leap  on  to  the  sensitive  face  opposite 
him. 

"You  are  a  foreigner,  sir,"  said  the  gentle- 
man then  with  excellent  command  of  the  lan- 
guage, but  with  that  outlandish  qualifying  tone 
that  had  already  awakened  the  student's  curi- 
osity. "A  foreigner,  sir,  are  you  not,  if  you 
will  forgive  my  inquiry?" 

"Yes,  as  you  perceive,  and  hard  at  work 
upon  learning  German.  I  am  English,  but 
find  your  tongue  hard  to  master."  The  last 
words  were  tentative.  They  should  have 
elicited  a  similar  declaration  of  nationality. 
But  the  stranger,  the  tension  of  his  whole 
frame  perceptibly  relaxing,  gave  a  slight  sigh, 
and  ignored  the  bait. 

"Then  I  drink  to  your  greater  success,"  he 
said,  and  raised  his  glass,  "You  already  speak 
with  much  correctness. ' ' 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so, ' '  vaguely 
responded  the  baffled  Englishman. 

"With  your  permission,"  then  said  the 
stranger  more  cheerily,  and  rising  as  he  spoke, 
"I  will  sit  at  your  table.  What  are  you  read- 
ing, you  permit?  Ah,  the  'Devil's  Elixir.'  I 
do  not  know  the  book."  Then,  musingly — 
' '  How  many  people  glibly  talk  and  write  of  the 

lOI 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

devil,  who  have  never  known  him !  Germans 
are  especially  fond  of  adverting  to  him,  and 
swearing  by  him.  'The  devil's  in  it,'  they  say, 
on  slightest  occasions.  Oh,  this  is  wrong! 
There  should  be  less  light  talk  ■  of  the  great 
enemy."  He  spoke  slowly,  and  the  English- 
man listened  amused  and  curious.  But,  in  try- 
ing to  respond  in  extemporised  phrases,  he 
broke  down  in  the  unfamiliar  speech,  and 
again  on  a  second  trial  came  to  a  dead  stop  for 
want  of  verbs. 

"I  am  ashamed,"  he  said,  blushing  with 
vexation,  "and  after  three  months,  too!" 

The  other  smiled  in  benevolent  sympathy. 
He  was  still  fingering  the  book  in  front  of  him, 
on  the  open  cover  of  which  was  a  small  book- 
plate; then  pointing  to  the  Latin  epigraph 
under  the  crest — 

"Patience,  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "the  first  steps 
are  hard,  but  this  motto  of  yours,  Propositi 
tenax^  is  one  which  will  lead  you  through 
greater  difficulties  than  this  German  language. 
Gaudet  patientia  duris.  I  regret  I  do  not  know 
English  myself. ' ' 

As  the  Latin  words  escaped  the  speaker, 
with  a  certain  archaic  air  of  scholarship  that 
was  not  without  its  quaintness,  the  young 
philologist  pricked  his  ears;  the  riddle  was 
solved;  the  hardness  of  the  middle  s  and  e,  the 
guttural  X  were  unmistakable  indices.     In  none 

J-9Z 


THE   DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

but  a  Castilian  school  could  this  Latin  have 
been  learned. 

With  much  of  that  sense  of  relief  felt  by  the 
inexpert  musician  as  he  abandons  the  decipher- 
ing- of  an  intricate  piece  for  an  old  familiar 
favourite,  the  student  played  truant  from  his 
self-imposed  school  and  lapsed  from  laboured 
German  into  fluent  Spanish. 

The  result  of  this  innocent  departure  was  re- 
markable. From  the  first  sentence  the  stranger 
grew  livid,  raised  his  head  with  a  jerk,  as 
though  he  had  been  struck,  and  clutching  the 
edge  of  the  table  and  pushing  back  his  chair, 
stared  a  moment  in  silence  at  the  amazed  youth. 

"What  is  this?  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this?"  he  gasped  forth  at  last,  while  a  purple 
glow  flashed  into  the  dilated  pupils  of  his  eyes 
— whether  from  anger  or  dread  it  was  impos- 
sible to  distinguish.  "Why  do  you  speak  to 
me  in  that  language?"  he  asked  again,  and  this 
time  with  obvious  distress,  unaware  seemingly 
that  he  now  used  the  same  tongue  himself. 

The  student  was  astounded;  all  he  had 
said  was,  "Am  I  wrong,  sir,  in  thinking  that 
you  speak  Castilian?"  and  he  would  have  added, 
"In  that  tongue  at  least  my  converse  would  not 
be  an  affliction  to  you."  But  the  man's  altera- 
tion of  manner  stopped  him  abruptly,  and  he 
made  answer,  when  he  had  sufficiently  recov- 
ered from  his  confusion — 

103 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

**Why — why,  because  it  is  a  language  I  know 
well,  and  love  well.  And  my  speaking  it  was 
meant  in  courtesy.  But  since  you  resent  it,  I 
crave  your  pardon — and  I  will  retire. ' ' 

His  companion  shook  his  head  and  gave  a 
deprecating  wave  of  his  shapely  hand. 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied,  motioning  him  down 
again  in  a  markedly  unconventional  manner, 
"you  must  sit  there." 

The  bidding  was  so  singularly  expressed  that 
the  student's  first  thought  (that  here  was  some 
criminal,  intent  on  hiding  his  nationality  and 
aghast  at  being  detected)  vanished  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  taken  shape.  He  sat  down  again; 
and  there  ensued  a  long  silence.  He  could  see 
the  man's  luminous  brown  eyes  still  fixed,  but 
their  speculation  was  now  inwards. 

"He  is  a  madman,"  was  the  second  thought; 
and  to  humour  one  who  might  be  dangerous  if 
thwarted — "Well,  sir!"  he  said  courteously, 
preparing  to  listen.  At  the  ring  of  the  Span- 
ish words  again  the  stranger  drew  in  his  breath 
and  turned  pale  once  more,  while  his  counte- 
nance assumed  a  pathetic,  deprecating,  almost 
imploring  look,  which  changed  all  vague 
thoughts  of  fear  into  what  was  almost 
sympathy. 

"So  you  speak  my  language,  sir,"  said  his 
strange  companion  in  a  low  voice  and  with  his 
eyes  cast  down;    "what  a  misfortune — what  a 

104 


THE   DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

misfortune!  Ah  me!  that  you  should  have 
spoken!  Now  you  must  listen.  I  must  tres- 
pass on  your  time,  for  you  must  hear." 

He  drew  his  chair  closer,  thrust  his  arms  for- 
ward on  the  table,  and  twisted  nervously  the 
signet  ring  he  wore  on  his  little  finger.  Then, 
sighing  faintly,  he  raised  his  eyes  full  on  his 
companion;  and  compelling  and  holding  his 
attention,  began  his  say — 

"You  have  now  to  hear  what  really  happened, 
it  is  already  many  years  ago,  in  the  officers' 
room  at  the  Military  School  of  Segovia,  between 
a  young  man  whose  forefathers  had  all  stain- 
lessly borne  these  arms,  and  Ramon  Echegorri, 
an  honourable  man,  once  a  sergeant  in  the 
Regiment- Loyalty.  It  has  to  be  told,  and  you 
must  hear  it." 

His  voice  had  changed  after  the  first  few 
words  and  assumed  a  strange  character ;  it  was 
low,  yet  limpid  in  its  great  precision,  and  abso- 
lutely toneless,  as  though  the  speaker  read  out 
a  mere  statement.  The  contrast  between  the 
voice  and  the  words  from  the  outset  impressed 
the  listener,  who,  now  quite  recovered  from 
his  alarms,  began  fervently  to  hope  that  the 
stillness  of  the  wine-room  might  not  pre- 
maturely be  disturbed. 

"I  must  assure  you,  sir,  that,  up  to  that  day, 
the  young  officer  was  blameless  of  aught  that 
befits  not  a  gentleman.     And  yet  then  he  did, 

105 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

for  no  reason  than  can  be  urged  in  excuse, 
that  which  it  turns  me  sick  to  remember. 
Many  and  many  a  time  have  I  marvelled  how 
much  less  dreadful  some  vulgar  crime  of  blood 
or  treason,  which  might  be  expiated  in  manly 
fashion,  would  be  to  look  back  upon.  But  this 
youth's  action  was  merely  one  of  low  cunning. 
It  was  not  even  theft.  When  I  think  of  it,  I 
think  as  of  putrid  dust,  of  obscene  spittle." 
There  was  no  change  in  the  man's  voice;  but 
the  listener,  enthralled  by  this  passion  of  con- 
tempt, could  see  a  dew  of  sweat-drops  gather- 
ing on  his  temples. 

"  It  is  good  that  you  should  know, ' '  the  voice 
went  on.  ' '  This  young  man  was  one  of  a  party 
of  ensigns  sent  to  Segovia  to  work  out  a  course. 
They  were  very  strictly  kept,  and  were  natur- 
ally not  allowed  much  money.  This  Ramiro  I 
speak  of,  a  little  older  than  the  greater  num- 
ber, was  the  most  likely  candidate  for  the  first 
place  at  the  coming  examination.  He  was  a 
keen  and  hard-working  youth;  one,  I  proclaim, 
who  had  then  the  stuff  in  him  for  a  good  man. 
It  was  two  days  before  the  passing  out,  and  he 
had  received  a  small  sum  of  money  from  his 
family,  who,  though  of  ancient  race  and  good 
position,  kept  him,  on  principle,  to  the  simple 
necessary  during  his  probation.  Strict  was  the 
discipline  in  the  school  on  matters  of  payment. 

"All  was  well  up  to  that  day;   all  was  well 

1 06 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

even  up  to  the  night,  although  the  money 
which  was  to  pay  for  the  month's  catering  was 
no  longer  his.  He  had  been  a  fool  that  day, 
but  had  not  yet  stooped.  But,  in  the  evening, 
as  he  sat  in  the  officers'  room,  deserted  then 
and  gloomy,  warming  himself  at  the  brazier, 
even  as  Peter  before  his  treachery — for  it  was 
bitter  cold  and  the  town  was  soft  with  snow — a 
fatal  shabbiness  of  mood  began  to  defile  his 
mind.  His  thoughts  were  dismal  and  cold  as 
the  air  outside  as  he  bent  them  on  the  missing 
moneys;  recalling  with  contempt  how  but  an 
hour  before  they  had  been  yielded,  as  in  a 
dream,  and  passed  into  the  bosom  of  the  gipsy- 
girl,  to  win  one  by  one  a  smile  and  a  song  from 
her  red  lips;  recalling  with  white  fury  how,  in 
mocking  ceremony,  the  little  demon  had 
restored  to  him  at  the  last  one  of  the  smallest 
coins — the  sole  occupant  now  of  his  miserably 
flat  purse — as  a  superstitious  sacrifice  to  luck, 
no  doubt,  before  thrusting  him  forth  into  the 
snowy  road,  gibing  at  him  for  the  booby  that 
he  was. 

"And  now,  with  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
head  resting  in  his  hands  as  he  gazed  into  the 
burning  brazier,  he  pondered.  Would  he  be 
believed  if  he  claimed  to  have  lost  his  funds  by 
accident?  Yet,  so  lost  they  must  appear.  A 
manly  confession  of  the  true  use  made  of  what 
was  due  to  the  military  chest  would  be  ruinous 

107 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

to  his  prospects.  The  lie  must  be  told.  This 
was  the  first  step  downward ;  one,  you  see,  he 
could  hardly  avoid.  So  the  young  man  drew 
his  last  piece;  he  called  the  steward  and 
ordered  his  evening  coffee,  and  tossed  the  coin 
to  him. 

"This  steward  was  an  honourable  man;  a 
fine  and  good  soldier,  strong  and  straight ;  his 
great  chest  was  bright  with  the  crosses  of  many 
actions.  He  was  a  Basque.  His  name  was 
Ramon  Echegorri,  and,  as  I  said,  he  was  a  man 
of  probity.  This  man  spoke  to  the  young 
officer  with  respectful  interest.  He  was  only 
a  sergeant,  but  had  seen  much  fighting,  and 
the  officer  was  on  the  threshold  of  his  career. 

"  'I  am  told.  Sir  Lieutenant,'  said  he  as  he 
brought  the  cup,  'that  you  are  most  like  for  the 
first  place.  I  shall  rejoice  to  hear  it  so.  It  is 
good  the  book-work  will  soon  be  over,  for  you 
look  more  fatigued  than  I  have  seen  you  before. ' 
Such  were  his  words,  and  they  were  kind. 

"And  when  this  Ramon  had  retired,  the 
officer,  thinking  of  the  morrow,  and  how  it 
might  well  be  that  he  had  already  jeopardised 
almost  sure  success  by  one  hour  of  folly,  was 
seized  again  with  fury  against  himself.  He 
flung  the  empty  purse  into  the  red  fire,  and 
cursed  his  fortune.  In  the  next  room  the 
steward  was  piling  up  the  day's  cash,  and  the 
chink  of  coin,  faint  as  it  was,  was  grievous  to 

io8 


THE    DEVIL'S    WHISPER 

the  ear.  He  walked  out  of  the  room,  down 
the  great  icy  stairs,  out  once  more  into  the 
white  and  black  streets,  devising  where  he 
should  lose  his  money.  And  then  the  thought 
that  the  brass  rings  of  the  purse  might  be 
found  in  the  brazier  stopped  him  short — I 
remember  where  this  thought  occurred ;  it  was 
under  the  arch  of  the  aqueduct  which  towers 
over  the  housetops.  And  although  this  was 
but  a  trivial  thing  after  all,  it  struck  colder  at 
my  heart  than  the  wind  that  hissed  among  the 
old  stones. ' ' 

The  speaker,  unaware  of  his  self-betrayal, 
turned  his  agonised  gaze  here  appealingly  upon 
the  listener,  who,  seemingly  bound  by  some- 
thing of  the  same  spell,  hung  silently  upon  his 
words. 

"This  was  the  beginning  of  the  evil  itself, 
although  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  it  was  yet 
unformed  and  unadopted.  If  we  believe  in 
the  devil,  it  was  he  who  at  that  moment  whis- 
pered to  me:  'The  rings  of  the  purse!'  ,  .  . 
Anyhow,  the  officer  returned,  half  running,  to 
the  room,  intent  only  on  seeking  among  the 
coals  for  the  unconsumed  evidence.  But,  as 
he  entered,  panting  with  the  hurry,  he  found 
the  sergeant  again. 

"The  man  turned  to  him  inquiringly.  He 
had  a  pleasant,  smiling  face, 

"  'Forgotten  something,  my  Lieutenant?'  he 

109 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

asked,  and  looked  round  and  about  with  polite 
solicitude. 

*'  'Yes — yes,  Echegorri.  I  think  I  left  my 
purse  on  the  table, '  This  time  it  was  the  devil 
himself  who  spoke,  for  the  officer  had  not 
intended  saying  that.  And  as  soon  as  the  lie 
was  out,  cold  again  seized  him  by  the  heart. 
The  blood  flew  to  his  head.  But  it  was  said. 
Ah  me !  sir,  you  see,  it  was  said. 

"Ramon  Echegorri  turned  grave  on  the 
instant.  He  cast  his  eyes  quickly  around  once 
more,  and  then  firmly  looked  into  his  officer's 
eyes,  saying — • 

"  'No,  my  Lieutenant,  you  have  not  left  it 
here. '  The  young  man's  heart  trembled.  But 
there  was  no  retreat  possible. 

"  'I  have  left  it  here,  Echegorri.  In  fact,  I 
remember  placing  it  on  that  table.  You  must 
inquire  at  once. '  Echegorri  shook  his  head. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  honest  brown  eyes  filled  the 
whole  space  of  the  room  with  their  blaze — 

"  'I  tell  you,  sir,  no  one  has  been  here  but 
myself.' 

"The  soldier  knew  that  his  officer  lied,  and 
told  him  so  to  his  face,  by  the  tone  if  not  by 
the  words.  And  now  the  younger  man  felt 
that  he  was  actually  assailed ;  with  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  he  clutched  desperately  at 
the  suggestion  of  infinite  malice,  unknown  till 
then  in  his  soul. 

no  I 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

"'Sergeant  Echegorri,'  he  said  roughly, 
'stand  to  order  and  beware.  I  can  still  let  you 
off;  but  that  purse  I  must  have  back.' 

"But  even  as  he  spoke  his  guilty  eyes  wan- 
dered unconsciously  towards  the  brazier.  In 
an  instant  the  sergeant  saw,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  he  understood  all.  Oh,  the  curse  of 
that  instant!  I  boldly  took  the  prompting 
whisper  of  the  devil. 

"There  was  still  a  smell  of  burnt  silk  hang- 
ing upon  the  air.  I  sniffed  the  nauseous  odour 
and  affected  to  be  struck  by  a  sudden  idea: 
'My  purse!'  cried  I,  in  a  voice  of  thunder.  In 
one  stride  I  was  by  the  fire  and  peering  into 
the  coals ;  a  little  green  flame  danced  over  the 
embers;  with  the  tongs  I  drew  forth  the  fatal 
rings  and  shook  them  in  the  sergeant's  darkling 
face.  'Oh,  fool!'  I  called  out,  'you  have 
betrayed  yourself.     Now  where  is  the  money?' 

"He  gave  me  but  one  look,  and  with  a  con- 
tempt one  would  think  unwarrantable  under 
any  circumstances  in  a  subordinate  towards  his 
superior,  turned  his  back  upon  me,  saying, 
'You  know  that  better  than  I  do.' 

"Footsteps  were  ascending  the  stairs.  I 
heard  them.  'Where  is  the  money,  and  no 
more  insolence? '  I  cried,  beside  myself.  He 
swung  on  his  heels  and  turned  to  me  again 
with  burning  eyes,  stamping  his  foot  in  sudden 
indignation ;  we  were  both  goaded  to  madness. 

Ill 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

'No  insolence,  man!'  I  screamed;  'you  stand 
here  a  self-convicted  thidf,  Sergeant  Eche- 
gorri. ' 

"I  had  hardly  spoken  before  the  stroke  of  his 
open  hand  fell  on  my  cheek  with  a  fury  that 
seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  flames.  To  be 
struck  by  a  sergeant! 

"I  would  have  sought  my  sword  to  kill  him, 
but  my  wrist  was  paralysed  in  his  grip,  and  at 
that  moment  two  officers  entered  upon  us. 
Suddenly  recalled  to  reason,  he  stepped  back 
from  me  and  stood  silent,  awaiting  his  fate. 
The  guard  was  called  up  and  the  innocent 
man,  guilty  of  a  capital  offence,  was  marched 
away  forthwith. '  * 

The  speaker  paused.  The  dark  flush  which 
had  suffused  his  face  slowly  ebbed  away,  but 
his  right  cheek  remained  curiously  marked 
with  an  angry  redness,  as  if  still  stinging  from 
the  shaming  blow.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
Englishman.  In  the  respite  there  came  to  the 
latter  floating  thoughts  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 
and  "his  glittering  eye";  but  here  the  deed 
confessed  was  of  human  interest,  and,  unlike 
the  wedding  guest,  he  longed  to  hear  further. 
Yet  he  spoke  not  a  word,  unconsciously  fear- 
ing to  break  the  spell. 

After  a  silence,  slowly  measured  by  the  beat 
of  the  Nuremberg  clock  high  on  the  wains- 
coting, the  tale  was  resumed  in  precisely  the 

112 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

same  tone,  and  as  if  answering  an  unspoken 
query. 

"No,  sir,  the  man  was  not  shot.  But  what 
mattered  that?  The  whole  night  was  spent  by 
the  young  officer  over  his  books ;  it  was  as  if 
the  slap  in  the  face  had  cleared  his  head  of 
doubt;  his  brain  was  active,  luminous.  On 
the  morrow  he  stood  before  the  commandant 
of  the  place  and  reported,  with  simple  military 
brevity,  the  remarkable  disappearance  of  his 
money,  the  melancholy  and  suspicious  behav- 
iour of  the  hitherto  blameless  and  trusted 
sergeant,  ending  up  with  his  insane  assault  on 
a  superior.  The  commandant  was  much 
struck  by  Don  Ramiro's  excellent  and  moder- 
ate bearing,  and  still  more  so  when,  the  official 
report  being  over,  the  latter  begged,  with 
much  feeling,  that  only  the  undeniable  and 
military  crime  of  striking  an  officer  should  be 
charged  against  the  culprit,  and  not  the  ques- 
tion of  theft  to  the  shaming  of  the  Regiment- 
Loyalty. 

"  'A  refined  sentiment  of  military  honour, 
young  man,'  said  the  commandant,  who  had 
belonged  to  the  Loyalty  himself ;  'never  lose 
that  spirit.  As  for  the  sergeant,  it  will  be  as 
you  wish. ' ' 

"And  the  magnanimous  youth  went  on  his 
way  once  more  under  the  black  aqueduct,  with 
upright  bearing,  toward  the  examination  room. 

"3 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

As  every  one  expected,  he  passed  out  first,  and 
thus  began  a  brilliant  military  career.  He 
never  saw  Echegorri  again,  save  on  the  day  of 
trial.  The  prisoner's  offence  was  of  course 
inexcusable  under  any  provocation;  the  ques- 
tion of  provocation,  moreover,  for  the  reasons 
I  have  mentioned,  was,  by  the  direction  of  the 
commandant,  strictly  kept  back.  By  special 
mercy,  in  consideration  of  his  meritorious  serv- 
ices, the  man  was  only  condemned  to  the 
penal  settlements.  It  was  noticed  that,  at  the 
reading  of  the  sentence,  he  looked  up  at  his 
accuser  long  and  darkly,  which  was  attrib- 
uted to  baffled  hatred;  and  that  the  accuser 
blushed  deep,  but  only  on  the  side  that  had 
been  struck  by  the  culprit,  and  that  was  put 
down  to  his  generous  blood. 

"And  this,  sir,  is  the  true  story  of  Ramon 
Echegorri,"  said  the  Spaniard,  who  now  took 
away  his  eyes  from  the  Englishman's  face. 

Then,  with  a  laugh  that  sounded  perilously 
like  a  sob,  he  dropped  his  forehead  on  both  his 
hands,  and,  in  that  posture,  remained  long 
absorbed  in  brooding. 

The  chime  of  the  half-hour  fell  solemnly 
from  the  cathedral  tower  into  the  sombre 
room. 

The  student  was  a  man  of  broad  and 
generous  views  for  all  his  still  young  years. 

1:4 


THE    DEVIL'S    WHISPER 

He  did  not  require  to  meditate  much  on  this 
miserable  tale  to  realise  the  long  expiation, 
untold  in  actual  words  yet  so  poignantly 
patent.  He  reached  across  the  table  and 
touched  the  stranger  gently  on  the  arm.  There 
was  a  sympathetic  quality  in  the  contact,  and 
the  man  looked  up  at  once.  On  his  face,  now 
tired  and  drawn  like  that  of  one  just  free  from 
a  racking  trance,  there  was  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"You  have  heard,"  he  murmured  wonder- 
ingly  —  the  inflections  of  waking  life  had 
returned  to  his  speech.  "You  are,  no  doubt, 
a  man  of  honour,  and  yet " 

The  Englishman  raised  his  hand  in  denega- 
tion.  Choosing  his  words  with  decision,  as  a 
mental  surgeon  rapidly  and  tenderly  dealing 
with  a  wounded  mind:  "I  have  heard,"  he 
said,  "a  tale  of  fate — of  the  irremediable 
consequences  of  an  act  more  thoughtless  than 
intrinsically  evil — I  have  heard  the  tale  of  a 
moment's  temptation,  despicable  enough  in 
itself,  but  the  results  of  which  were  not  fore- 
seen, and  therefore  not  weighed.  I  have 
heard,  above  all,  a  tale  of  never  absent 
remorse,  and  I  remember  (although  I  am  not 
given  to  that  sort  of  quotation)  that  there  is 
mercy  for  every  sin. ' ' 

The  Spaniard  had  listened  to  the  young 
man's  indulgent  casuistry  with  a  countenance 

"5 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

of  doubt,  yet  not  untouched  by  relief.  "You 
are  the  only  one, ' '  he  said,  with  a  weary  voice, 
"who  has  ever  listened  to  my  story  with 
sympathy — and  such  sympathy  is  balm  to  me, ' ' 
touching  his  heart  with  a  pathetic  look. 
' '  Indeed,  you  are  the  only  man  who  has  heard 
it  to  the  end.  When  this  incomprehensible 
vertigo,  this  fatal  impulse  to  unfold  the  true 
account  of  my  dishonour  seizes  me,  men 
generally  escape,  with  deprecatory  words,  as 
from  a  madman. " 

"And,  if  I  might  advise  you,  sir,"  said  the 
Englishman,  his  native  practicality  coming 
once  more  to  the  fore,  "it  would  be  to  curb, 
once  for  all,  this  tendency — no  doubt  arising 
from  a  penitential  spirit — thus  to  accuse  your- 
self of  a  dead  and  past  misdeed  to  the  casual 
stranger.  It  is  time,  believe  me,  to  shake  off 
an  incubus  which,  (it  may  even  be  argued)  could 
not  continue  to  feed  upon  your  mind  were  it 
not  in  essence  a  loyal  and  generous  one.  This 
pragmatic  impulse  will  degenerate  into  mad- 
ness if  you  do  not  take  care. ' ' 

"It  is  already  so,  beyond  doubt,"  said  the 
Spanish  gentleman,  stroking  his  forehead 
with  distressful  gesture.  "In  all  other  re- 
spects I  am  miserably  sane,  but  the  impulse, 
when  it  comes,  is  unconquerable.  Men  have 
been  known,  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  to  be 
so  drawn  as  to  fling  themselves  into  its  horror. 

ii6 


THE   DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

The  language  which  I  used  for  my  sin  I  have 
now  to  use  for  my  punishment.  I  cannot,  as 
you  have  seen,  even  hear  the  beautiful,  the 
noble  tongue  of  my  country  without  also  hear- 
ing that  call  which  has  become  irresistible.  I 
sought  a  cure  in  flight,  in  the  sound  of  other 
speech  in  other  lands,  and  thought  I  had 
found  in  this  exile  of  mind  and  tongue,  peace 
at  last.  To-day's  events  prove  how  futile  is 
the  hope." 

He  paused  for  a  while,  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  gazing  in  desolation  at  the  strip 
of  blue  through  the  open  window.  Presently 
he  resumed : 

"The  curse  came  upon  me  only  when  one 
would  have  thought  the  sin  of  my  youth  might 
well  have  passed  into  oblivion  even  in  my  own 
mind.  It  was  years  after.  I  bore  on  my 
tunic  then  as  many  crosses  almost  as  did 
Ramon  Echegorri  once.  I  had  proved  myself 
a  good  officer,  a  humane  soldier,  a  loyal 
gentleman — with  that  one  exception  you  know 
of.  It  was  as  if  God  himself  had  forgiven. 
Everything  prospered  to  me.  I  had  come  into 
my  title,  and  an  unexpected  fortune.  I  was 
well  known  in  the  world,  of  high  repute  in  my 
service. 

"After  the  Carlist  War  it  was  my  fate  to 
return  to  Segovia,  this  time  as  a  staff  exam- 
iner.    One  evening,  in  the  officers'  casino,  as  I 

117 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

was  conversing  pleasantly  after  cards,  and 
when  nothing  was  further  for  the  moment 
from  my  mind  than  the  stings  of  remembrance, 
despite  of  my  surroundings,  a  soldier  brought 
in  the  day's  mails. 

•'  'The  captain  has  had  some  good  news,' 
cried  an  officer  beside  me  as  I  opened  the  first 
letter,  and  the  whole  friendly  company  looked 
round  smiling  at  my  flaming  cheek.  You  have 
doubtless  noticed,  sir,"  said  the  Spaniard, 
interrupting  his  story,  "this  curious  infirmity 
of  mine,  this  brand  of  shame  upon  which,  in 
this  very  room,  I  felt  your  eye  but  a  little 
while  ago.  How  could  I  ever  have  thought 
the  wrath  of  God  allayed  when  this  warn- 
ing had  never  quitted  me ;  when  at  all  moments 
of  deep  emotion,  more  especially  in  hours  of  ela- 
tion and  pride,  it  grew  so  conspicuous,  though 
understood  of  me  alone,  as  to  have  become 
a  byword  among  my  comrades?  And  thus 
they  called  to  me  that  night:  'Is  it  a  new 
decoration,  Don  Ramiro,  or  a  new  appoint- 
ment?' 

"What  the  letter  said  I  can  repeat  word  for 
word ;  I  have  it  in  my  eyes  as  when  they  first 
read  it.  After  the  compliments  which  it  is 
usual  with  us  to  prefix  to  all  courteous  com- 
munications, it  went  on  thus : — 

"  'When  you  receive  this  letter,  forwarded 
by  the  Father  confessor  against  prison  rules, 

ii8 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

and  which  therefore  you  must  destroy  once 
read,  Ramon  Echegorri  will  be  dead  of  this 
prison  fever.  I  have,  by  my  suffering  Sav- 
iour's mercy,  lost  all  hatred  for  you,  for  the 
prison  surgeon  has  assured  the  good  Father 
that  I  have  little  time  to  prepare  for  death. 
You  have  made  me  suffer,  sir,  greatly ;  I  never 
harmed  you,  and  even  in  thought  and  deed 
have  done  you  well.  But,  on  my  hope  of  sal- 
vation, I  wish  you  to  know  that  at  my  last  hour 
I  have  forgiven  you. ' 

"There  the  letter  ended  with  ceremonious 
formula,  as  befitted  the  relations  of  a  common 
sergeant  with  a  gentleman  of  position,  his 
officer. 

"Had  he  cursed  me,  I  think  I  could  have 
borne  it;  but  his  forgiveness  struck  at  my 
heart.  It  struck  at  my  brain.  What  had  for 
these  years  been  but  a  dormant  canker  in  my 
secret  self  became  from  that  moment  aroused 
to  virulent  disease. 

"By-and-by,  amid  the  constant  effort  to  con- 
ceal from  my  honourable  associates  the  misery 
that  was  consuming  me,  there  grew  a  new  and 
horrible  desire  to  clean  my  soul  of  the  unsa- 
voury tale.  I  first  began  to  yield  to  the  mania 
in  indirect  fashion;  narrated  hypothetical 
cases  similar  to  mine.  But,  like  a  drunkard, 
the  craving  increased  as  I  compromised  with 
it.     The  next  step  was  to  tell  the  story  in  its 

119 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

entirety,  concealing  only  names  and  places. 
People  began  to  look  askance ;  I  was  becoming 
a  dreaded  infliction.  In  time  the  inevitable 
occurred.  A  friend  whom  I  met  alone  in  a  rail- 
way station,  changed  his  carriage  at  the  next 
station,  without  apology.  He  took  me  for 
mad.  .  .  . 

"  'I  assure  you,  my  officer,'  said  a  rapscallion 
host  at  Avila,  with  an  impudent  grin  as  he 
presented  me  with  a  bill  quadruple  of  the  right 
amount,  'I  feel  certain  that  you  are  able  to  pay 
your  score ;  you  will  not  find  here  your  purse 
in  the  brazier.'  He  took  me  for  a  vulgar 
rogue  like  himself.   ...     I  paid  and  fled. 

"At  last,  I  found  myself  pouring  forth  my 
infamy  to  my  best  friend,  the  man  I  most 
esteemed.     He  knew  I  spoke  the  truth. 

"  'My  dear  comrade,'  he  said,  'you  are  too 
ill  to  remain  with  us.  It  will  not  do.  Some 
of  us  might  one  day  begin  to  imagine  there 
was  a  background  of  fact  to  these  ravings  of 
yours.  After  your  honourable  services  it  is 
but  just  that  you  should  now  think  of  your- 
self. I  would  recommend  travel,  prolonged 
travel  .  .  .  abroad.' 

"I  can  never  forget  the  scorn  of  his  look, 
the  coldness  of  his  voice.  I  sent  in  my  demis- 
sion. He  also  obtained  leave,  and  never 
quitted  me  till  I  was  out  of  the  country.  We 
had  faced  death  together  only  the  year  before, 

1 20 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

but  the  honour  of  the  regiment  was  dear  to 
him. 

"The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,"  went  on 
Don  Ramiro,  "but  I  believe  He  will  yet  spare 
me  a  remnant  of  livable  life.  Here  in  this 
country  I  have  first  found  peace,  I  knew  a 
little  German ;  and  in  a  strange  language  the 
maniac  impulse  has  never  made  itself  felt. 
And  of  late  I  had  even  begun  to  think  I  might 
taste  happiness  again. 

"Now  you  know  how  it  is  that  what  should 
be  the  sweetest  sound  to  an  exile's  ear,  the 
sound  of  my  mother  tongue,  has  become  to 
me  the  most  dreaded.  I  have  never  yet  heard 
it  in  these  parts ;  and  when  it  came  from  your 
English  lips  it  was  unexpected  indeed,  and 
once  more  turned  the  old  tide  full  against  me." 

"I  regret  it,"  said  the  Englishman,  with 
some  feeling. 

There  fell  a  long  silence  upon  the  two  men. 
At  length,  with  a  deep  sigh,  Don  Ramiro 
roused  himself,  and  rising  as  if  to  take  his 
leave,  said,  speaking  German  once  more — 

' '  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  patience  with  me, 
and  your  sympathy. ' ' 

"Give  me  your  company  a  little  longer, 
pray,"  returned  the  student  heartily,  he  too 
resuming  the  German  tongue  in  tacit  acquies- 
cence, "and  if  you  will  but  prolong  your 
indulgence  to  my  linguistic  labours,  I  shall  feel 

121 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

that  I  may  order  another  bottle  with  a  clear 
conscience. ' ' 

And  in  this  new  mood  they  sat  together  dis- 
cussing the  wine  and  such  desultory  subjects  as 
came  to  mind,  until  the  student  began  almost 
to  feel  as  if  the  secret  buried  between  them 
had  been  but  a  dream  of  his  own  active  brain 
between  the  two  bottles  of  subtle  and  generous 
Rhenish. 

As  they  walked  at  length  together  out  of  the 
cool,  dim  wine-room  into  the  mellowing  sun- 
light and  parted  at  divergent  streets,  only  a 
spirit  of  perhaps  exaggerated  delicacy  pre- 
vented the  Englishman  from  begging  that  this 
meeting  might  not  be  the  last. 

For  many  days  he  haunted  the  tavern  at 
likely  hours;  lingered  in  the  public  gardens 
and  searched  through  throngs  of  broad-visaged 
Teutons  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Vandyck  head,  in 
vain.  By-and-by  he  grew  to  think  that  the 
Spaniard  was  determinedly  avoiding  him ;  and 
the  old  city  having  exhausted  its  interest  for 
him,  he  prepared  to  wing  his  flight  to  some 
other  quaint  haunt  wherein  congenially  to 
prosecute  his  investigation  of  the  German 
speech. 

But  one  afternoon  shortly  before  his  pro- 
posed departure,  as  he  was  strolling,  as  usual 
book  in  hand,  along  the  red  sandstone  quays 
that     curb    the    mighty   flow    of    the  Rhine, 

122 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

he  lighted  once  more  on  his  singular  acquaint- 
ance. 

Each  absorbed,  one  in  his  book,  the  other 
seemingly  in  his  thoughts,  they  only  became 
aware  of  the  encounter  when  already  face  to 
face.  Whether  it  was  pleasing  or  not  to  the 
Spaniard  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  tell; 
with  exquisite  breeding  he  saluted  his  compan- 
ion and  extended  his  hand. 

"Always  at  work,  my  dear  sir,  I  see.  I 
admire  your  industry. ' '  He  spoke  in  the  odd 
precise  German  already  familiar  to  the  stu- 
dent ;  his  manner  was  easy,  as  of  one  who  had 
only  parted  from  an  acquaintance  a  few  hours 
before.  There  was  a  stronger  ring  in  his  tone, 
a  new  elasticity  in  his  bearing  which  instantly 
struck  the  Englishman.  With  quick  scrutiny 
he  scanned  the  speaker's  countenance  and  dis- 
covered also  a  new  serenity,  a  look  almost  of 
happiness. 

They  stood  a  moment  in  converse,  and  then 
walked  together  some  little  distance,  talking  on 
indifferent  topics  with  much  mutual  civil  defer- 
ence. It  was  then  that  the  explanation  of  the 
changed  bearing  of  Don  Ramiro  came  upon 
the  wondering  undergraduate,  and  that  he 
remembered  him  of  the  letter  the  Spaniard  had 
so  long  lingered  over  on  the  day  of  their  first 
meeting. 

A  sentry, mounting  guard  at  the  gates  of  one 

123 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

of  the  noble  red  mansions  overlooking  the 
river, suddenly  presented  arms; and  with  loudly 
clanking  svi^ord,  a  square  grey-whiskered  man 
in  colonel's  uniform  emerged  from  the  wide 
portals,  accompanied  by  a  young  girl  in  flutter- 
ing summer  dress.  At  sight  of  the  latter  the 
Spaniard's  eyes  shot  fire;  and,  although  he 
had  too  much  inborn  courtesy  to  show  it, 
it  was  evident  that  his  tavern-friend's  com- 
pany had  become  inopportune.  But  be- 
fore the  latter  could  take  an  unaffected  leave, 
the  officer  and  his  fair  companion  had  drawn 
close  and  exchanged  greeting  with  Don 
Ramiro. 

And  now,  according  to  the  etiquette  of  the 
land,  in  answer  to  an  inquiring  glance,  the 
Englishman  had  to  be  introduced,  and  this  the 
Spaniard  did  with  good  grace. 

"Mr.  Marshfield,  an  English  student,"  he 
said,  mentioning  the  name,  "who  has  come 
here  to  study  German."  And  having  likewise 
presented  the  officer  as  the  Colonel  command- 
ing the  Dragoon  regiment  in  garrison  and  his 
future  father-in-law,  Don  Ramiro,  without 
taking  apparent  notice  of  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  the  announcement  thus  incidentally 
conveyed  to  the  possessor  of  his  secret,  devoted 
his  attentions  to  the  lady.  Of  her  the  under- 
graduate forthwith  took  curious  and  interested 
note  as  a  pretty,  plump  specimen  of  the  dark 

124 


THE   DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

German,  pleasing  enough,  though  not  perhaps 
the  mate  he  would  have  fancied  for  his 
romantic-looking  mysterious  Spaniard. 

There  could  be  no  doubt,  however,  that  the 
couple  were  deeply  enamoured;  there  was  a 
pathetic  tenderness  in  his  eyes,  as  they  rested 
upon  her ;  and  she,  with  all  the  national  aban- 
donment in  matters  of  intercourse  between 
betrothed,  showed  herself  wrapt  heart  and  soul 
in  her  handsome  cavalier. 

As  a  sequel  to  this  incident  the  Englishman, 
in  his  character  of  friend  to  the  bridegroom- 
elect,  found  himself  at  once  treated  with 
amiable  consideration  by  the  colonel,  and 
invited,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  the  ante- 
nuptial festivities  of  the  Polterabend  which 
were  to  be  celebrated  the  next  day.  The 
betrothal,  it  seemed,  was  already  of  long  stand- 
ing, and  from  the  officer's  converse  it  was  evi- 
dent that  it  gave  general  happiness. 

Now,  although  the  student  was  not  without 
some  misgivings,  whether  it  would  not  be  the 
more  kindly  act,  in  the  circumstances,  to  avoid 
the  invitation  he  had  at  first  so  warmly  accepted, 
his  constitutional  curiosity  and  his  interest  in  the 
strange  bridegroom  finally  overrode  the  deli- 
cate scruples ;  and  thus  the  next  evening  he 
found  himself  one  of  the  seething  crowd  in  the 
great  rooms  of  the  colonel's  house,  where  the 
pot-breaking  and  other  traditional  methods  of 

125 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

merry-making  were  being  carried  out  with 
typical  thoroughness  and  clamour. 

An  utter  stranger,  and  naturally  somewhat 
lost  among  so  many,  he  was  quite  content  to 
play  the  simple  part  of  spectator ;  and  unable 
even  to  approach  the  bridal  pair,  only  caught 
occasional  glimpses  of  Don  Ramiro's  counte- 
nance, pale  yet  radiant,  and  of  the  bride's 
darkly  glowing  face,  somewhat  too  obtrusively 
sentimental  for  his  English  taste. 

As  the  last  hour  drew  near,  and  the  fun  was 
fast  and  furious,  there  came  a  sudden  inter- 
ruption to  the  usual  course  of  proceedings 
which  gave  him  again  an  undesired  activity  in 
connection  with  the  Spaniard's  affairs.  The 
host,  standing  on  a  chair,  was  demanding 
silence  in  the  voice  of  one  long  accustomed  to 
instant  obedience,  and  a  comparative  lull 
inspired  by  vivid  curiosity  fell  on  the  good- 
humoured  assembly.  The  student  pressed 
forward  with  the  rest. 

At  the  table  reserved  for  the  family  and 
their  intimates  there  had  evidently  been  a 
hearty  succession  of  toasts.  Just  then  most  of 
the  countenances  round  it  were  exchanging 
benevolent  glances  of  intelligence,  becks  and 
wreathed  smiles.  The  bride,  blushing  more 
deeply  than  ever,  was,  standing,  a  slender 
beaker  foaming  in  her  hand,  her  swimming 
eyes  fixed  upon  Don  Ramiro,  who,  with  a  look 

126 


THE    DEVIL'S    WHISPER 

of  smiling  mystification,  was  just  rising  to  his 
feet. 

"My  betrothed,"  she  began,  with  not  unbe- 
coming confusion  at  hearing  her  own  voice  in 
the  midst  of  the  expectant  silence,  "you  have 
covered  me  with  presents,  the  most  magnifi- 
cent, the  most  lovingly  devised ;  but  I  too  have 
for  you  a  special  gift  to  show  my  love  and  con- 
stant thought.  It  has  been  difficult  to  secure, 
and  even  more  difiicult  to  keep  secret  from 
you  till  now.  I  want  to  be  praised,"  she 
added,  "both  for  keeping  it  so  well  and  for  my 
diligence."  She  smiled  on  him  with  ponder- 
ous coquettishness ;  and  subdued  guttural 
exclamations,  sentimentally  greeting  her  little 
speech,  rustled  through  the  room. 

And  now  the  Englishman's  heart  almost 
stood  still ;  the  bride  was  no  longer  speaking 
German.  God  of  Mercy!  these  were  Spanish 
words  that  fell  upon  the  air!  "My  beloved," 
she  was  saying  with  triumphant  enunciation, 
"I   drink  to  thee,   to   our  happiness.      I  am 

proud  to  tell   thee "      She   broke   off    in 

amazement,  and  there  followed  an  instant's 
breathless  silence ;  nothing  for  a  moment  was 
heard  but  the  rain-drops  of  the  storm  that  had 
been  brewing  all  day,  beating  on  the  panes. 

At  the  first  fatal  words  Don  Ramiro  had 
thrown  his  hands  forward  with  a  terrified, 
deprecating  gesture.     As  she  went  on,  from 

127 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

his  open  mouth  came  unformed  sounds  such  as 
escape  a  man  only  in  the  horror  of  nightmare. 

Speechless,  he  despairingly  clapped  his  palm 
on  his  lips  in  adjuration  for  her  to  stop.  And 
then,  in  the  silence,  above  the  driving  of  the 
rain  came  his  voice  at  last,  exhausted  and  com- 
plaining as  that  of  a  dying  man. 

"What  is  this?"  he  murmured,  looking  round 
unseeingly;  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 
Oh!  why  do  you  speak  to  me  in  Spanish?  Ah 
me!  Love  of  my  soul,  that  you  should  have 
spoken!  Now  you  must  listen — you  too  must 
hear.     Come !     Come  away ! ' ' 

No  one,  perhaps,  but  the  girl  and  the  Eng- 
lishman understood  his  language — none  but 
the  latter  the  real  meaning  of  his  words ;  and 
in  the  confusion  that  ensued  he  instantly 
decided  to  interfere.  He  cleaved  without  cere- 
mony the  crowd  of  guests  that  gathered  thickly 
round,  calling  out  in  Spanish,  to  the  increased 
astonishment  of  every  one — 

"Don  Ramiro,  conquer  this  weakness!" 
Then  turning  to  the  terrified  girl  and  pointing 
to  his  heart,  "Be  not  too  much  alarmed, 
madam,"  he  said,  plunging  into  the  first 
excuse  that  came,  "  my  friend  is  subject  occa- 
sionally to  these  attacks.  I  know  he  will  be 
better  presently,  but  I  must  attend  to  him" — 
and,  seizing  the  Spaniard  by  the  wrist  and 
shoulder,  he  fairly  rushed  him  out  of  the  room. 

128 


THE    DEVIL'S   WHISPER 

To  his  own  astonishment  he  found  that  the 
unfortunate  bridegroom  only  offered  passive 
resistance,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  dragged 
without  expostulation  through  the  first  open 
door  into  the  garden,  and  thence  into  a  back 
street.  The  evening  was  dark;  it  rained  in 
torrents ;  the  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts,  and  the 
streets  were  abandoned.  The  two  men,  bare- 
headed and  uncloaked  under  the  downpour, 
were  spared  the  intrusive  observation  of 
passers-by. 

They  walked,  almost  ran,  silently  for  some 
time,  in  unknown  ways,  without  a  word.  A 
chance  turning  in  the  intricate  network  of 
small  alleys  brought  them  presently  into  a 
blind  lane,  and  so  to  a  standstill.  The  Eng- 
lishman released  his  grip,  and,  placing  his  back 
against  a  wall  under  a  dim-blinking  street- 
lamp,  faced  his  companion  and  addressed  him 
with  forced  cheeriness. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  better,  are  you 
not,  Don  Ramiro?  The  vertige  is  over.  Shall 
we  return  now?  The  spell  is  broken,  you 
know.  It  was  lucky  I  was  there ;  but  now  it  is 
conquered.  Courage,  Don  Ramiro,  be  a 
man ! ' ' 

But  Don  Ramiro  made  no  answer.  He  held 
his  face  raised  to  the  spilling  rain;  his  eyes 
were  closed.  Along  his  drawn  cheeks  the 
drops    ran    down    in     rivulets;     the    student 

129 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

thought  they  were  mixed  with  tears,  and,  at 
his  wits'  end,  he  abruptly  ceased  what  seemed 
but  a  patter  of  foolish  words  in  the  presence 
of  irremediable  misery.  Presently  he  heard  in 
the  distance  the  rattle  of  a  cab,  and  thought  of 
endeavouring  at  least  to  convey  this  stricken 
man  to  shelter.  He  ran  to  the  turning  and 
hailed  in  his  lusty  young  voice.  Then  he 
looked  round  for  his  comrade,  apprehensive 
to  have  left  his  side  even  for  a  moment.  But 
the  dim  spaces  were  empty,  and  as  he  ran 
hither  and  thither,  desperately  calling  on  his 
name,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dark,  bent 
figure,  slinking  with  the  swift,  self-effacing 
motion  of  a  cat,  round  a  distant  turning. 

And  the  path  of  the  Spanish  gentleman's 
life,  from  that  moment,  diverged  from  that  of 
the  student  for  ever. 


130 


THE 
HERD-WIDDIEFOW 


The   Herd-Widdiefow 

This  is  my  great-grandmother's  story  as  she 
told  it  to  my  grandmother,  and  as  my  mother 
heard  it  from  my  grandmother's  lips. 

It  is  still  a  favourite  story  for  a  winter's 
evening  by  the  hearth  when  the  lassies  sit  to 
their  spinning;  and  I  have  known  not  a  few 
to  sigh  in  secret  for  the  old  evil  days  when  a 
woman's  heart  was  ever  ready  to  spring  to  her 
mouth  at  a  footstep  outside,  and  when  none 
knew  if  the  cow  were  safe  in  the  byre,  or  the 
bonnie  lass  in  her  chamber,  for  fear  of  the 
reiving,  thieving  Highlandman  —  the  Herd- 
Widdiefow,  as  such  a  fellow  was  known  in  his 
own  uncouth  tongue!  But  I  for  one  have 
never  ceased  to  regret  that  my  great-grand- 
mother should  have  sat  brooding  by  the  fire, 
that  September  night  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  instead  of  drawing  bolts  and  bars 
and  fastening  up  the  house ;  for  by  that  lazy 
fit  of  hers  did  our  good  Lowland  farm  come 
into  the  hands  of  the  Highland  race,  and  our 
good  Lowland  name  become  exchanged  for  an 
ill-sounding,  heathen  one  and  the  fine  breed  of 

^33 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

Haseltine  suffer  the  intermixture  of  the  fierce, 
wildcat,  mountain  blood.  Whereby  a  family 
that  had  been  noted  for  straight  limbs,  sleek 
skins  and  canny  heads,  have  brought  forth  ever 
since  little  else  but  swarthy,  hairy,  squat- 
figured  loons,  and  thriftless  black-eyed  lasses ; 
settle-to-naught  and  ne'er-do-weels. 

Now  my  great-grandmother  was  an  only 
child  and  a  great  match  the  whole  country  side 
over.  She  was  a  comely  dame,  I  have  heard 
my  mother  say,  even  as  she  had  known  her  in 
her  old  age;  and  when  she  was  young,  so  the 
legend  goes,  her  hair  was  the  colour  of  the 
inner  husk  of  the  chestnut,  and  the  skin  of  her 
face  was  as  pink  and  white  as  the  wild  roses  in 
the  hedgerows.  Her  name  was  Margaret. 
And  being,  as  I  say,  his  only  child  born  to  him 
after  long  years  of  barren  wedlock  when  he 
himself  was  an  old  man,  'twas  but  natural  that 
her  father  should  yearn  to  see  her  wed  before 
he  died. 

Her  heart  inclined  to  a  cousin  of  her  own, 
John  Haseltine  by  name;  a  true  chip  of  the 
old  block,  with  the  bluest  eyes  between  Tyne 
and  Clyde.  And  her  father  approved  of  her 
choice.  John  Haseltine  the  younger  had  been 
seven  years  at  Hazelburn,  working  under  his 
uncle.  He  was  a  douce  lad,  so  tall  that  my 
great-grandmother,  who  was  a  tall  woman,  had 
to  look  up  to  him  and  to  stand  on  tip-toe  if  she 

134 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

wanted  to  kiss  him.  He  had  a  slow  way 
with  him  and  a  slow  speech,  but  he  never 
did  nor  said  anything  that  was  not  to  his 
advantage ;  and  my  great-grandmother  thought 
that  they  would  be  very  happy  and  that  he 
would  take  good  care  of  the  farm  and  of 
herself. 

On  the  night  I  am  telling  you  about,  a  Sep- 
tember night,  with  an  angry  wind  and  a  storm 
brewing  behind  the  hills,  the  master  of  the 
farm  and  all  the  men,  who  had  worked  from 
dawn  at  bringing  in  the  harvest  before  the  rain 
should  come,  were  dog-tired ;  so  tired  that  old 
John  had  snored  over  his  supper  and  young 
John  had  fallen  asleep  even  as  he  sat,  accord- 
ing to  his  wont  alone  with  his  betrothed  after 
the  rest  had  retired.  He  looked  a  very  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  my  great-grandmother 
thought,  as  he  lay  back  beside  her  with  his 
legs  outstretched  and  his  curly  head  propped 
against  the  angle  of  the  oak  settle.  The  sun 
had  burnt  his  face  deep  red,  but  where  the 
shirt  lay  open  at  the  neck,  his  skin  was  as 
white  as  her  own. 

But,  all  at  once,  as  she  sat  gazing  at  him, 
her  heart  grew  hot  and  angry  against  him, 
she  could  not  have  said  why;  and  she 
flounced  away  from  him  and  knocked  over 
the  creepy  stool.  John  Haseltine  sat  up  with 
a  start. 

135 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"Faith,  Meg,"  said  he,  and  smacked  a  kiss 
upon  her  cheek,  and  yawned,  "I  beheve  I  have 
been  noddin'." 

Whereupon  he  rose  and  staggered,  sleep- 
drunken,  from  the  room,  and  she  heard  his 
heavy  stumbles  on  the  wooden  stairs  as  he 
mounted  to  his  bed  in  the  loft. 

Thus  was  my  great-grandmother  left  alone 
in  the  kitchen,  all  the  household  a-bed  but  she. 
She  drew  the  creepy  stool  to  the  hearth  and 
sat  looking  into  the  embers.  What  had  come 
upon  her  she  never  knew  to  her  dying  day, 
whether  it  was  the  scent  of  the  hay  that  had 
gone  to  her  head  or  the  gathering  storm  that 
had  turned  her  sour  like  the  milk ;  but  there 
was  nothing  but  black  bitterness  within  her 
breast  against  all  the  world,  above  all  against 
her  good  John. 

The  thunder  began  to  rumble  overhead  and 
the  hail  hissed  down  the  chimney,  and  she  was 
glad,  because  it  just  suited  her  mood.  The 
windows  rattled  and  the  doors  shook  as  the 
blast  raged  round  the  house ;  and  glancing  over 
her  shoulder,  she  saw  that  John  had  forgotten 
to  draw  the  bars  and  bolts  as  was  his  nightly 
duty. 

"Plague  take  the  sleepy  loon,"  said  she.  "I 
trow  I  have  a  pretty  life  before  me!" 

She  rocked  herself  backwards  and  forwards, 
staring  at  the  turf  that  was  crumbling  away 

136 


THE    HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

into  white  ash,  and  rubbing  her  cheek  with 
her  hand  where  it  had  been  kissed  by  him. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  she,  "I  might  as  well 
have  been  Aunt  Deb,  for  all  the  warmth  in  his 
lips!" 

The  thunder  crackled,  down  came  the  rain  as 
if  all  heaven's  sluices  were  opened.  The 
lightning  flashed  this  side  and  that.  Uneasily 
the  cattle  began  to  low  without ;  it  seemed  as 
if  between  the  noise  of  the  thunder  and  rain 
and  the  wind,  she  could  hear  the  patter  of  their 
feet  drawing  close  to  the  house  for  shelter. 
Suddenly  the  yard  dog  raised  a  fierce  clamour, 
and  as  suddenly  fell  silent.  And  then  the 
thunder  roared  again  and  swallowed  all. 

"The  dumb  beasts  know  there  is  danger," 
thought  she,  and  her  lip  curled,  "but  overhead 
they  lie  like  logs,  and  the  place  might  be  burnt 
about  our  ears,  before  they  would  think  of 
turning  on  their  pillows." 

Now,  even  as  she  thought  this  to  herself, 
there  came  the  most  terrible  thunder-clap  there 
had  been  yet,  so  that  it  was  as  if  the  whole  sky 
had  turned  into  metal  and  was  breaking  itself 
upon  the  world ;  and  the  lightning  hissed  across 
the  sleeting  rain.  She  sprang  to  her  feet, 
clasping  her  hands  and  gazing  around  in  terror. 

Then,  even  in  the  shimmering  of  the  light- 
ning, she  saw  a  face  looking  in  upon  her 
through  the  window — a  man's  face,  strong  and 

137 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

wild,  with  teeth  and  eyes  gleaming  white. 
The  next  instant  it  was  gone  with  the  flash. 

She  stood  terrified,  straining  her  ear;  the 
storm  still  growled  and  grumbled,  but  it  was 
wearing  away.  The  rain  came  lighter  and 
steadier  and  the  blast  was  dying  off,  but  there 
were  strange  rumours  without;  the  patter  of 
feet  and  hoofs  on  the  soft  ground,  whispers  of 
muffled  voices,  and  the  cattle  were  lowing  with 
angry  plaintive  note.  Yet  the  yard  dog  was 
silent. 

* '  Things  are  no  canny  the  night, ' '  said  my 
great-grandmother.  Then  she  tried  to  laugh 
at  herself. 

"I  am  going  daft!"  said  she,  and  poked  the 
dying  embers  into  flame.  After  which, 
emboldened  by  the  cheerful  light  and  the 
familiar  objects  around  her  and  the  relief  of  the 
returning  serenity  outside,  she  walked  across 
the  floor  to  draw  the  bolts  of  the  great  door. 
She  was  raising  the  main  bar  (and  though  she 
was  a  strong  lass  it  was  a  hard  job  for  her) 
when  there  rang  a  crash  of  broken  glass  upon 
the  bricks  under  the  kitchen  window,  and, 
before  she  had  even  time  to  call  out,  some- 
thing leaped  upon  her  with  the  spring  of  a 
mountain  cat.  A  hand  was  clapped  over  her 
mouth,  she  felt  herself  seized  and  held.  She 
fought  hard,  all  her  sturdy  womanhood  at  bay, 
but  the  grip  that  held  her  was  as  strong  as 

138 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

steel.     There  was  a  chuckle  in  her  ear  as  if  of 
triumph. 

The  next  moment  a  heavy  plaid,  reeking  of 
peat  smoke,  was  flung  over  her  head,  stifling 
her  cries.  This  was  so  wound  and  knotted 
about  her  that  her  arms  were  pinned  by  her 
side ;  and  in  a  trice  she  had  become  as  helpless 
as  an  infant  in  its  swaddling  clothes.  Then 
she  was  whipped  from  her  feet  and  borne 
away  at  a  quick,  steady  trot,  and  she  felt  the 
fresh  outer  wind  flutter  her  petticoats  and  blow 
against  her  feet,  which  were  all  she  had  free. 

"He  will  be  a  strong  man,"  she  thought, 
however,  "who  can  carry  the  finest  wench  in 
the  dale  many  yards  at  such  a  rate. ' '  And  she 
struggled  on  with  might  and  main.  Little  it 
helped  her.  In  another  minute  she  was  flung 
across  the  saddle-bow  of  a  horse  with  no  more 
ado  than  if  she  had  been  a  bag  of  meal,  and 
with  legs  hanging,  dangling  one  side  and  head 
the  other,  she  was  borne  through  the  night  at  a 
cruel  pace. 

All  was  now  a  blank  and  hideous  medley  to 
her  till  the  time  (she  knew  not  whether  it 
came  after  minutes  or  hours)  when  she  found 
herself  delivered  from  her  bonds  and  placed 
erect  before  her  captor  with  the  free  air  upon 
her  burning  face.  Afar  away  they  must  have 
ridden,  for  by  the  dim  light,  the  waste  where 
they  now    halted  looked   all   strange   to   her. 

139 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

And  yet,  by  the  stars,  the  night  was  not  yet  on 
the  wane. 

She  shifted  herself  in  the  saddle  and  turned 
to  look  upon  the  rider  behind  her.  The  same 
wild  face  that  she  had  seen  in  the  lightning 
flash  looked  back,  so  close  to  hers  in  the  eerie 
glimmer  that  she  started  as  if  she  would  have 
dashed  herself  from  the  nag. 

"Whither  do  you  bring  me?"  cried  my  great- 
grandmother,  "and  what  do  you  want  with  me? 
If  it  be  money,  take  me  back  to  my  father  or 
set  me  down  that  I  may  make  my  way  home 
on  foot,  and  I  promise  you  that  whatever  ran- 
som you  ask,  so  it  be  within  our  means,  it  shall 
be  honorably  paid  and  no  vengeance  attempted 
for  this  night's  work." 

By  which  you  will  see  that  my  great-grand- 
mother was  a  canny  lass  and  kept  her  wits 
about  her. 

But  the  fierce  face,  out  of  the  dark  masses  of 
tangled  hair,  that  seemed  as  strange  and  fear- 
ful to  her  as  might  some  wild  beast  of  the 
woods  to  a  tender  farm  lamb,  only  flashed 
mocking  white  teeth  upon  her  and  the  sinewy 
arms  but  held  her  closer.  And  the  rider  urged 
his  steed,  which  seemed  as  unkempt,  as  sturdy, 
as  squat  as  himself,  once  again  into  a  trot 
which  shook  the  breath  out  of  her  body.  Then 
a  fury  rose  and  broke  within  her  like  a  storm. 
She  fell  upon  him  first  with  stinging  words, 

140 


"THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

then  with  buffets  and  hair-wrenchings,  with 
pinchings  and  scratchings.  He  bore  it  all  as  if 
he  had  been  insensible  alike  to  insult  or  injury. 
But  after  a  while,  as  her  passion  gave  way  to 
weariness  and  shame,  he  suddenly  reined  in, 
and  disengaging  one  hand  carelessly  wiped  the 
blood  from  his  face. 

"Now  hark  ye,  lassie,"  said  he,  and  he  spoke 
English  to  her  fluently  enough,  though  with 
some  care,  as  if  it  did  not  come  ready  to  his 
tongue,  "rave  and  scrawb  as  much  as  ye  like, 
'twon't  avail  ye  much,  and  'twon't  hurt  me 
much.  But  it  is  as  well  ye  suld  ken  what  is  in 
my  mind  about  ye.  When  we  came  to  the 
farm,  the  lads  and  I,  the  bit  kine  was  all  we 
wanted — and  ye  maun  say  that  it  is  but  fair  we 
should  have  our  turn  with  a  fat  heifer  now  and 
again,  for  a  Highland  man  must  live  as  well  as 
his  Lowland  neighbour.  But  even  as  the  puir 
beasties  were  being  driven  off  as  doucely  (they 
were  skeered  by  the  storm,  puir  things!)  as  if 
they  were  going  to  pasture,  the  deil  took  me  to 
look  in  at  the  window.  Then  I  saw  ye  sitting, 
with  the  fire  playing  on  your  bonny  hair  and 
on  the  bend  of  your  waist.  And  I  thought 
within  myself — 'twas  as  if  the  lightning  had  set 
fire  to  a  dry  rick — 'That  is  the  wife  for  Donald 
MacBane!'  And  so,  my  bonny  dou,  I  am  not 
for  taking  ye  back  to  your  father  or  setting  ye 
on  your  legs  to  rin  hame  to  him.     But  'tis  the 

141 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

kind  gudeman  I'll  make  ye,"  said  he,  "and 
once  we  are  wed,  nane  will  do  us  harm.  And 
if  ye  have  the  maist  siller,  'tis  I  have  the  maist 
luve,  and  siller  never  hurt  naught." 

Whereupon,  my  great-grandmother  said 
she  gave  the  most  terrible  skreek  ever 
was  heard.  So  shrill  it  rang  that  it  fright- 
ened even  herself,  and  the  little  horse 
stopped  as  if  it  had  been  shot,  and  the  birds 
in  the  low  whin  bushes  all  about  rose  com- 
plaining from  their  sleep  and  flapped  circling 
round  their  heads. 

And  then  on  they  trotted  again,  and  she 
remembered  no  more,  till  they  halted  in  a 
waste,  yet  wilder  than  the  first.  The  dawn 
was  breaking  white  and  dreary  upon  a  lower- 
ing sky. 

"Now,"  said  Donald  MacBane,  "we  will  have 
a  spell  of  sleep,  for  'tis  full  weary  I  am,  and  a 
man  maun  sleep,  be  he  in  luve,  in  war,  or  in 
business. " 

He  jumped  from  the  pony  as  he  spoke,  and 
lifted  her  down.  The  grasp  of  his  lean  hands 
was  as  terrible,  my  great-grandmother  thought, 
and  as  strong  as  ever.  And  as  he  lifted  her, 
she,  being  stifE  and  trembling,  fell  into  his 
arms,  for  she  could  not  hold  herself;  and  he 
kissed  her  as  he  caught  her.  She  had  just  the 
power  left  to  clout  him  for  it,  whereat  he 
laughed  till  the  whole  moor  rang.     Then  twist- 

142 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

ing-  the  nag's  rein  round  his  right  arm,  he 
spread  half  the  plaid  and  flung  himself  upon  it. 

"And  the  other  half  is  for  ye,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing with  all  his  wicked  face. 

"Oh!"  cried  my  great-grandmother,  and 
would  have  struck  him  again,  had  she  had  the 
energy  to  lift  her  arm. 

"Have  it  as  ye  wull,"  says  he.  "Ye  maun 
gang  your  ain  gait  a  wheen  bit  longer,  and  then 
it's  my  douce  little  wife  ye'll  be.  Rin  awa  if 
ye  like,"  says  he,  "for  ye  are  bound  to  win 
back  to  me.  Ye  do  not  ken  the  moor,  so  ye 
will  just  go  in  a  circle  as  round  as  a  wedding- 
ring.     May  be  t' will  amuse  ye!" 

And  so  saying  he  rolled  over  in  the  plaid, 
and  in  another  minute  he  was  snoring.  And 
the  pony  began  cropping  at  the  poor  grass,  and 
my  great-grandmother  felt  abandoned  by  God 
and  man. 

At  first  she  thought  to  make  off  on  the  pony, 
but  it  was  as  cunning  as  its  master,  and  let  out 
with  its  heels  at  her  if  she  so  much  as  came 
within  a  yard  of  it.  And  then  she  tried, 
though  in  truth  her  limbs  could  scarce  bear 
her,  to  start  away  alone  by  herself  over  the 
desolate  moor,  but  sure  enough,  when  she  had 
gone  but  a  little  way  she  found  herself  (and 
she  never  could  explain  why)  rounding  back 
again  to  where  the  Highlandman  slept  beside 
the   cropping  pony.     And  so,  in  despair,  she 

143 


MARSHFIELD  THE   OBSERVER 

flung  herself  upon  the  turf,  and  before  she 
knew  it  she  too  was  asleep. 

In  her  sleep  she  dreamed  a  wild  and  fretted 
dream,  And  presently,  out  of  the  turmoil  of  it, 
she  thought  that  she  was  by  the  ingle-nook  and 
John  Haseltine  beside  her,  and  that  John 
kissed  her ;  but  not  as  he  had  kissed  her  that 
night  (and  even  in  her  dream  she  remembered 
'this  in  grudge  against  him),  with  a  cool, 
brotherly  touch.  These  were  kisses  of  love; 
passionate,  masterful,  fiery.  And  as  he  kissed 
her,  he  crooned  to  her:  "My  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride ! ' '  And  to  the  fire  of  love  in  the  words 
and  in  the  kisses  her  heart  leapt. 

Now  as  her  heart  leapt  she  woke  up,  and 
there  was  the  blank  morning  sky  above  her 
and  the  wide,  wide  moor  around  her,  and 
beside  her  sat  the  squatting  Highlandman. 
He  was  gazing  upon  her  with  a  flame  in  his 
eyes. 

*' My  bonnie  bride!"  said  he;  and  thus  she 
knew  whose  were  the  kisses  that  yet  lay  so 
hot  upon  her  lips. 

I  have  made  it  clear,  I  think,  that  my  great- 
grandmother  was  a  quick-tempered  lass;  but 
never,  so  she  told  my  grandmother,  had  she 
known  such  a  frenzy  of  anger  in  her  life  before 
or  since  as  that  which  now  took  her.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  scrubbed  her  mouth  as 
if  she  would  have  laid  her  lips  raw. 

144 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

"Your  bride!"  said  she,  and  had  to  laugh,  or 
she  would  have  screamed.  "Not  so  long  as 
there  is  a  knife  in  the  whole  of  Scotland." 
And  indeed,  if  she  had  had  a  knife  to  her 
hand,  she  felt  it  in  her  then  to  have  driven  it 
to  his  heart. 

"Canny!"  said  he,  smiling  at  her.  "Never 
boast,  hinny!  No  ain  of  us  can  tell  in  the 
morn  what  the  day  may  bring  forth.  See  yon 
sun?"  said  he,  stretching  out  his  haggard  arm 
and  pointing  to  the  horizon  where  the  sun  still 
hung  low,  but  very  beautiful  and  dazzling, 
with  rays  all  round  it  piercing  the  clouds,  as 
you  may  see  it  pictured  in  the  old  Bible. 
"Who  knows,"  said  he,  "but  what  before  yon 
sun  has  travelled  half  its  course  to-day,  it  may 
shine  upon  us,  man  and  wife ! ' ' 

He  grinned  in  her  face  as  he  spoke ;  his  teeth 
were  very  white  and  strong,  as  she  had  noticed 
before.  She  set  her  lips  and  turned  her  head 
away.  She  felt  she  hated  him  the  more  for  the 
savage  beauty  of  his  countenance,  and  beauti- 
ful it  was,  though  marred  by  her  nails  that 
night.  So  she  let  him  lead  her  once  more  to 
the  pony  and  set  her  on  it,  after  the  fashion 
she  had  by  this  time  grown  wofuUy  accustomed 
to,  and  she  never  so  much  as  asked  him 
whither  he  was  taking  her,  for  indeed  she  was 
almost  too  weary  to  think  at  all.  This  much 
she  knew,  that  she  could  not  escape  upon  the 

145 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

moor ;  and  one  faint  hope  she  had  of  obtaining 
help  if  they  should  but  win  to  some  spot  where 
she  could  appeal  to  a  fellow  human. 

Thus  they  set  forth  once  more  to  the  jogging 
trot  to  which  her  every  bone  answered  with 
sore  greeting,  and  in  a  very  little  while  her 
heart  was  cheered  by  the  sight  of  a  cultivated 
patch  of  field,  the  white  gleam  of  the  high 
road,  the  shelter  of  trees,  and  blue  smoke  ris- 
ing against  the  threatening  yellow  sky.  Yet 
'twas  but  a  wretched  hamlet,  and  though  the 
shanty  at  which  they  halted  was  of  a  slightly 
better  quality  than  the  four  or  five  others 
clustering  round  it,  that  was  very  little  to  say, 
for  it  was  a  miserably  poor  place  with  volumes 
of  turf  smoke  rushing  out  through  a  hole  in  the 
thatched  roof  and  through  the  glassless  win- 
dow. There  was  a  great  dung  heap  before  the 
door,  about  which  a  little  herd  of  ragged  chil- 
dren were  playing,  more  dirty,  she  thought, 
than  it  was  conceivable  for  any  creature  to 
become,  and  shrieking  to  each  other  in  Gaelic. 
A  dry  bush  hung  above  the  half-open  door, 
that  was  itself  falling  from  its  hinges,  and  by 
this  she  knew  it  was  an  inn. 

Upon  the  arrival  of  the  new-comers,  the  wild 
urchins  ran  squealing  like  a  disturbed  litter  of 
piglets  into  the  dark  reeking  of  the  hovel.  At 
the  same  moment  Donald  MacBane  dismounted 
and   called.      Out   came    a   stunted,    weather- 

146 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

beaten  woman  with  black  elf-locks  hanging 
about  her  face,  who  flung  up  her  hands,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  them,  and  poured  forth  a  tor- 
rent of  words  in  a  tongue  as  uncouth,  to  great- 
grandmother's  ears,  and  as  intelligible  to  her 
as  if  it  had  been  the  language  of  beasts. 

She  sat  still  mute,  therefore,  clinging  to  the 
pony's  rough  mane,  and  indeed  the  dumb  nag 
and  the  wild  moor  now  seemed  to  her  prefer- 
able to  the  unknown  horror  of  that  Highland 
cottage.  In  the  track  of  the  inn-woman  pres- 
ently followed  a  squat  man,  and  after  him  an 
old  hag,  and  then  a  slatternly  slut  of  some  six- 
teen years,  and  a  couple  of  slouching  black 
a'vised  lads.  Indeed,  my  great-grandmother 
said,  they  seemed  to  come  pouring  out  upon  her 
till  it  was  a  marvel  to  her  how  the  wretched  hut 
could  contain  so  many.  And  they  all  shouted  in 
the  Gaelic  at  Donald  MacBane,  and  he  shouted 
back  at  them  till  the  poor  young  woman  felt 
her  brain  reel.  And  some  faces  expressed  fear 
and  some  admiration,  some  a  sort  of  envy,  yet 
all  a  great  surprise.  All  looked  upon  her  as 
curiously  as  if  she  were  a  being  from  another 
world. 

At  length  Donald  MacBane  came  up  to  her, 
lifted  her  down  and  handed  her  over  to  the 
first  woman,  saying : 

* '  Gae  with  her,  hinny,  she  is  a  gude  creature 
and  she  will  give  you  water  to  lave  your  face 

147 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

and  a  drink  of  milk  to  refresh  ye,  before  we 
start  again  upon  our  journey.  And  as  for 
me,"  he  said,  "I  maun  hae  a  drop  of  the 
usquebaugh,  for  the  very  soul  of  me  is  dry." 

My  great-grandmother  turned  to  look  at  the 
woman  and  seemed  truly  to  read  a  kind  of 
womanly  pity  in  that  wild  face.  The  thought 
of  the  clean  water  and  the  milk  was  pleasant 
to  her,  so  she  suffered  the  ragged  wife  to  take 
her  into  the  hovel,  through  the  dim  room, 
where  the  peat  smoke  scalded  her  eyes  and 
caught  at  her  throat,  and  on  to  a  sort  of  back 
room  or  shed,  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Here  she  fell  upon  a  bench,  and  the  woman 
brought  her  milk,  hot  from  the  cow,  in  a 
broken  yellow  cup.  The  milk  was  laced  with 
spirits,  and  as  she  drank  it  ran  warm  through 
her  trembling  body,  and  braced  her  sinking 
courage.  And  then,  by  signs,  she  got  her 
hostess  to  fetch  her  water  in  a  pail,  and  she 
washed  and  washed  till  some  of  the  horror  of 
the  night  seemed  to  be  washed  from  her. 

Next  she  plucked  out  her  high  comb  and 
shook  down  her  chestnut  hair.  The  Highland 
woman  threw  up  her  hands  and  cried  aloud  in 
admiration . 

But  even  as  my  great-grandmother  shook  it 
out  and  drove  the  comb  through  it  as  well  as 
she  could,  she  saw  through  the  ruddy  veil  how 
the  woman's  face  changed  suddenly  to  a  dirty 

148 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

grey,  how  she  bent  her  ear  to  listen  and  how 
her  smiling  lips  became  convulsed  as  if  in 
terror. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  my  great-grandmother, 
forgetting  that  the  poor  creature  could  not 
understand  a  word.  But  the  woman  lifted  up 
her  hand  as  one  who  bids  her  be  silent  and 
listen,  and  then  was  heard  a  regular  tramping 
and  a  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  as  of  mounted 
soldiers  without.  There  came  a  sharp  word  of 
command  that  rang  upon  the  air  like  a  pistol 
shot,  and  then  the  tramping  ceased  and  there 
was  no  sound  but  the  snort  of  a  horse  and  the 
ring  of  a  bit  or  the  stamp  of  an  impatient  hoof. 
Upon  this  there  rose  a  storm  of  Gaelic  within 
the  shanty  which  was  as  suddenly  hushed,  and 
all  at  once  my  great-grandmother  found 
Donald  MacBane  standing  at  her  elbow. 

His  breath  came  a  little  short,  and  his  cheek 
too  was  curiously  faded  beneath  its  deep  tan ; 
but  his  eyes  looked  at  her  as  a  hawk's  upon  its 
prey. 

"Now,  hinny,"  said  he,  "if  ye  want  to  see 
me  hangit  ye  have  got  but  to  say  the  word ! 
The  soldiers  are  without,"  said  he,  "seeking 
you  and  me. '  * 

"God  be  praised!"  cried  my  great-grand- 
mother, flinging  back  her  hair  and  clasping  her 
hands  in  joy.  And  then,  "God  forbid,"  she 
said,  "I  don't  want  you  to  hang." 

149 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

He  had  made  a  gesture  to  simulate  the  twist- 
ing of  a  rope  round  his  neck,  and  flung  his 
head  on  one  side  with  his  tongue  out  and  a 
horrible  suggestion  of  a  thrawn  neck.  She 
lifted  her  hands  to  shut  out  the  horrid  sight. 

Just  then,  from  the  other  room,  there  broke 
forth  afresh  a  screech  of  Gaelic  like  a  whole 
pondful  of  geese  and  fowl  disturbed,  and  above 
all  the  ring  of  the  clean  English  voice.  She 
pointed  to  the  wide  moor  beyond  the  yard. 

"Away  with  you!"  said  she,  in  a  breathless 
whisper.  He  smiled  back  at  her  and  pointed 
too;  she  saw  the  bayonet  of  a  dragoon  rise 
above  the  little  hedge  even  as  she  looked,  and 
another  a  few  feet  beyond;  and  she  knew  the 
place  was  ringed. 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "I  maun  hang.  Ye  shall 
see  me  hang,  lassie. ' 

Now  my  great-grandmother  always  said  that 
if  he  had  shown  the  smallest  cowardice,  she 
thinks  she  would  have  indeed  found  it  in  her 
heart  to  let  him  go  to  his  death.  But  though 
he  stood  so  close  to  her  that  his  shoulder 
touched  her,  there  was  not  a  quiver  in  his 
frame,  not  a  flicker  in  the  lid  of  the  eye  that 
fixed  her  with  its  keen,  far-away,  indomitable 
look.  And  yet  she  knew  he  did  not  want  to 
die  because  his  cheek  had  become  so  bloodless 
that  the  scratches  she  had  given  him  now  stood 
out  in  fiery  lines. 

150 


THE    HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

"Whatever  happens,"  thought  she  to  her- 
self, "that  is  a  man.  "  And  then  she  made  up 
her  mind.  "I  will  not  have  3'ou  hang,"  she 
said. 

He  flushed  suddenly. 

"Say  as  I  bid  ye,"  he  said,  "and  ye  can  save 
me  yet. ' ' 

"And  if  I  do,"  says  she,  hanging  back  as  he 
would  have  led  her  forward  into  the  outer 
room,  in  which  the  noise  was  rising  and  sinking 
like  the  wind  in  a  night  of  storm,  "if  I  do,  will 
ye  set  me  free?" 

"I  give  ye  myaith,"  said  he,  "that,  an  ye 
will  not  wed  me  of  ye  ain  will,  I  will  bring  ye 
back  to  your  father!" 

"Do  you  swear?"  said  she. 

He  did  so.  It  was  an  oath  so  fearful  that  it 
made  her  blood  run  cold.  Then  he  snapped  the 
shawl  from  the  woman's  shoulders  and  flung  it 
over  my  great-grandmother's  head;  and  drew 
the  brass  wedding-ring  from  her  hand  and 
slipped  it  on  my  great-grandmother's  finger. 

"Now  follow  me,"  said  he,  and  marched 
into  the  guest-room  with  as  bold  a  step  as  if  he 
were  lord  of  the  land.  Peeping  through  the 
shawl,  my  great-grandmother  followed  him 
and  saw  how  the  dark  hovel  was  full  of  heavy- 
booted  dragoons,  and  how  the  chief  of  them, 
an  officer  with  a  keen  English  face  and  fine 
powdered  hair,  sat  at  a  table,   with  the  wild 

151 


MARSHFIELD  THE   OBSERVER 

Highland  people  drawn  up  before  him,  penned 
round  by  soldiers,  as  if  they  had  been  so  many 
wild  beasts. 

The  dragoon  captain  wheeled  round  upon  his 
stool  and  looked  at  the  new-comers  with  eager 
blue  eyes. 

"Ha!"  said  he,  "whom  have  we  here?" 

MacBane  advanced,  saluted ;  and,  in  his  glib 
yet  studied  English,  explained  at  some  length 
that  he  was  a  Highland  drover  returning  from 
the  fair  at  Kinross  with  his  new  Lowland  bride. 

"Ha!"  said  the  Captain  again,  "come  for- 
ward, young  woman.     Take  off  that  shawl. 

Margaret  Haseltine  obeyed.  There  was  a 
murmur  among  the  men  at  sight  of  that  golden 
head  in  so  dark  and  evil  a  place. 

The  Sergeant  and  the  Captain  whispered 
together. 

"It  is  damnably  like  the  description,"  said 
the  Captain.  "Hark,  you  rascal,"  said  he  to 
the  pretended  drover,  "your  story  is  plausible 
enough,  but  that  countenance  of  yours  bears 
vastly  different  evidence.  I  verily  believe," 
said  the  Captain,  "that  you  are  none  other 
than  the  scoundrel  I  am  in  search  of,  and  that 
there  stands  Miss  Haseltine,  the  young  woman 
for  whom  we  have  ridden  since  dawn. ' ' 

Upon  this  the  Sergeant  clapped  Donald  Mac- 
Bane  upon  the  shoulder,  and  there  was  a  sin- 
ister clink  of  handcuffs. 

152 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 


<«i 


'Do  not  be  afraid,  Miss,"  said  the  Captain 
gently  to  my  great-grandmother,  "you  are 
quite  safe,  and  none  can  do  you  harm. ' '  And 
then  he  added,  laughing,  "And  you  have 
marked  that  gentleman's  face  in  a  way  that  is 
like  to  carry  him  to  the  gallows. '  * 

"Bide  a  wee,  bide  a  wee,"  said  Donald,  as 
cool  as  a  cucumber.  "Let  my  gude  wife 
speak  for  herself.  Do  not  be  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  Captain.  Mak  sure  ye've  got  the  right 
bird  before  you  clap  the  cage  door.  Hinny, ' ' 
said  he,  turning  to  Margaret,  "tell  these 
gentlemen  that  I  have  spoken  the  truth  and 
that  you  are  my  wife." 

Now    my  great-grandmother   found  herself 
answering  before   she    knew    what    she    was 
doing ;  and  what  she  said  was  this : 
1  am. 

"What?"  cried  the  Captain,  in  great  sur- 
prise, "is  this  man  your  husband,  mistress?" 

My  great-grandmother  looked  round  upon 
them  all,  and  then  at  Donald  MacBane;  and 
upon  his  unflinching  eyes  (yellow  they  were, 
with  black  pupils  that  expanded  and  con- 
tracted as  they  watched  her)  her  wondering 
eyes  rested. 

Then  she  said  as  one  may  speak  in  sleep : 

' '  He  is  my  husband. ' ' 

"And  she  is  my  wife,"  said  Donald  Mac- 
Bane,  promptly,  and  took  up  her  hand  to  show 

153 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

the  wedding-ring.  *  'And  as  for  the  scratches,  * ' 
said  he,  smiling  slyly,  "well,  your  Honour  is 
not  a  married  man,  or  he'd  not  make  so  muckle 
account  of  them. ' ' 

The  soldiers  tittered  and  nudged  each  other, 
but  the  Captain  looked  stern.  Donald  MacBane 
thereupon  made  his  bow,  and  my  great  grand- 
mother thought  it  was  strange  to  see  the  ease 
and  grace  of  him,  cateran  though  he  was ;  then 
he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  drew  her  back  with 
him  to  the  shed  and  no  one  sought  to  stay  them. 

But  ere  she  turned  Margaret  Haseltine  saw 
the  Captain's  blue  eyes  shoot  clear  contempt 
upon  her,  and  her  pride  smarted  her  sorely  that 
even  for  an  hour  she  should  pass  for  the  bride 
of  the  Herd-Widdiefow. 

She  could  not  have  said  what  sharp  conflict 
was  in  her  heart  when  she  heard,  by  the  run- 
ning of  the  soldiers  at  their  Captain's  order 
and  the  trampling  of  the  horses  once  again,  by 
the  musical  jingle  of  spur  and  bit,  and  the 
clank  of  a  flying  scabbard,  that  the  little  troop 
were  riding  away  across  the  moor. 

She  flung  the  dirty  screen  from  her  head, 
twisted  her  hair  into  a  decent  knot,  and  called 
fiercely  upon  the  reiver,  who  from  the  open 
shed  was  watching  the  last  bobbing,  vanishing 
red  coat. 

"Now,"  said  she,  "I've  kept  my  word,  see 
that  you  keep  yours. ' ' 

154 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

He  wheeled  about  and  gave  her  a  long  look. 

Just  then  from  the  inner  room  there  burst  a 
sound  of  shouting  and  hand-clapping  and  a 
shrill  crow  of  woman's  laughter.  It  was  like 
the  freeing  of  mighty  waters. 

"Take  me  out  of  this!"  said  my  great- 
grandmother,  and  stamped  her  foot. 

Donald  MacBane  answered  by  no  word,  but 
took  her  hand  and  led  her  forth  once  more. 
Under  his  glance  the  clamorous  crew  fell 
quiet,  and  drew  back,  and  whispered  together, 
eyeing  her  more  curiously  than  before. 

She  handed  the  hostess  back  her  wedding- 
ring,  sore  vexed  that  she  had  naught  to  give 
her  for  her  civility  but  a  word  of  thanks  in  a 
strange  tongue.  As  the  poor  creature  took  the 
trinket,  if  ever  woman  (so  my  great-grand- 
mother thought),  from  her  own  sore  knowl- 
edge of  life,  took  pity  upon  a  sister,  that 
woman  took  pity  upon  her ;  so  much  so  that  at 
sight  of  her  face  a  cold  sweat  started  upon  her 
own  brow. 

A  ragged  urchin  was  holding  a  fresh  pony  in 
readiness  for  them,  and  the  plaid  that  had 
acted  so  important  a  part  in  the  night's  work 
was  now  neatly  folded  across  its  withers,  form- 
ing a  not  too  uncomfortable  pillion.  The 
Highlander  mounted  and  she  was  hauled  up 
into  her  place. 

That  he  should  let  her  ride  as  a  lady,  behind, 

155 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

instead  of  as  a  prisoner,  before  him,  seemed  in 
itself  an  earnest  of  his  good  intentions.  And 
yet,  as  they  left  the  wretched  hamlet  behind 
them,  and  as  the  shouts  and  the  laughter  that 
had  broken  out  in  valedictory  greeting  died 
away  in  the  brisk  heather-scented  air,  she  hung 
her  head  and  wondered  what  dull  oppression 
lay  upon  her  spirits. 

They  ambled  for  a  while  in  silence  down  the 
road  which  inclined  between  two  stretches  of 
moorland  toward  a  distant  and  apparently 
cultivated  valley.  The  sky  had  brightened 
into  clear  blue,  and  the  autumn  tints  upon 
whinbush  and  bracken  and  heather  were 
glorious  to  see. 

"How  soon  shall  we  be  home?"  said  my 
great-grandmother. 

"Hame,    is    it?"     said     Donald     MacBane. 

' '  May  be  a  twa-three  hours. ' ' 

He  turned  the  pony  from  the  highroad  as  he 
spoke,  and  took  a  sort  of  sheep  track  that 
seemed  to  lead  indefinitely  across  the  moor, 

"Is  this  a  short  cut?"  said  she. 

"Aye,"  Donald  MacBane  replied. 

On  they  went  again,  when  the  silence  and 
the  stillness  and  the  strangeness  began  to 
revive  her  apprehensions;  she  looked  about 
her  in  the  hope  of  descrying  a  familiar  land- 
mark. But  'twas  the  most  desolate,  god-for- 
saken waste  one  could  imagine. 

156 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 


««i 


'I  do  not  recognize  this  place,"  she 
exclaimed  suddenly. 

Donald  MacBane  made  no  reply.  Struck  to 
the  heart,  all  at  once,  she  gave  a  great  cry: 

"Fool,  fool  that  I  was  to  put  trust  in  the 
faith  of  a  Highlandman ! " 

He  drew  rein  and  turned  to  look  at  her  over 
his  shoulder,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
started. 

"And  what  did  I  promise  ye,  hinnie?"  said  he. 

"To  bring  me  home  to  my  father,  if  I  saved 
your  neck,  you  false  loon!"  she  cried,  and 
made  as  bold  a  front  as  she  could  with  so  fear- 
ful and  throbbing  a  heart. 

"Whisht,  whisht,"  said  he,  "I  made  nae  sic 
promise.  I  promised  to  bring  ye  to  your 
father  an  ye  would  not  wed  me  of  your  ain  free 
will." 

"Where  are  you  taking  me  to,  in  the  name 
of  God?"  she  cried  wildly. 

He  looked  back  at  her  over  his  shoulder 
again,  and  the  pony  stood  still  and  took  to 
cropping  the  turf  under  his  loose  hand. 

"I  am  taking  ye  hame,"  said  he,  with  a 
dreadful  smile  of  triumph.  "Where  else  maun 
a  man  take  his  bride  upon  his  wedding  day? 
Hame,  hinnie,  hame  to  your  gude  man's 
house!" 

She  flung  herself  off  the  pony  as  if  she  had 
been  sitting  behind  the  devil ;  yet  so  possessed 

157 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

by  terror  was  she  that  then  she  stood  still  star- 
ing at  him,  and  could  not  find  breath  to  ask  the 
meaning  of  his  words. 

Donald  MacBane  leisurely  twisted  round  in 
the  saddle  and  brought  one  lean  bare  leg  to 
join  its  fellow.  He  sat  sideways  on  the  pony, 
and  looked  at  her  as  if  amused,  yet  with  that 
singular  steadiness  of  eye  which  had  already 
reminded  her  of  a  striking  hawk's. 

"Have  ye  not  claimed  me  as  yer  husband 
before  witnesses?"  said  he,  "before  as  gude 
witnesses  as  ever  man  or  maid  could  wish? 
And  have  I  not  claimed  ye?  Does  that  not 
bind  us  as  fast  as  kirk  or  book?  Do  ye  not  ken 
the  law  of  Scotland?" 

Then  the  whole  truth  flashed  upon  my 
unfortunate  great-grandmother's  mind.  She 
saw  how,  out  of  his  very  death  peril,  the  wild 
Highland  thief  had  laid  a  trap  for  her,  and 
how  in  her  womanly  pity  she  had  fallen  into  it. 

She  felt  her  heart  stop  and  then  bound  as  if 
it  would  break.  And  the  worst  of  all  the 
agony  within  her  was  a  kind  of  dreadful  joy 
she  felt  within  herself,  to  kill  which  she  could 
have  killed  herself.  And,  being  but  a  poor 
young  lassie,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  her 
courage  suddenly  failed  her;  she  cast  herself 
down  on  the  turf,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
this  dreadful  night  and  day,  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  tears. 

158 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

Through  her  sobs  and  long-drawn  breaths 
and  over  the  hammering  of  her  pulses  she 
could  hear  the  crisp  sound  of  the  pony's  crop- 
ping teeth  and  his  snorting  breath  as  he  nipped 
the  grass  in  a  circle  about  her.  When  she 
looked  up  at  last  it  was  to  find  Donald  Mac- 
Bane  squatting  on  the  turf  beside  her,  watch- 
ing her  as  he  had  watched  her  sleep  that 
morning. 

"Wha  kens  but  that,  if  you  will,"  said  he, 
as  their  eyes  met,  "ye  may  hae  the  chance  of 
seeing  me  hangit  yet !  So  dinna  greet  so  sair. 
There's  naught  so  bad  as  can't  be  mended." 
Then  he  edged  a  little  closer  to  her  and 
stretched  out  that  strong  arm  the  grasp  of 
which  she  knew  so  well. 

"Natheless,  being  wed,"  said  he,  "ye  canna 
rid  yourself  of  my  being,  woman,  unless  by 
death.  Sic  is  the  law,  and  the  law's  a  terrible 
thing!"  He  pressed  her  waist  as  he  spoke. 
"  Whafs  your  name,  my  bonnie  wife?" 

"Margaret,"  she  sobbed. 

"Buss  me,  Margaret!"  said  he.  He  drew 
her  head  to  his  shoulder  gently  and  kissed  her. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "we  are  man  and  wife,  and 
ye  maun  to  my  hame  before  I  go  to  yours. ' ' 

When  my  great-grandmother  returned  from 
the  mountain  fastness  to  her  old  home,  there 
was  at  first  great  rejoicing  because  she  had 

159 


MARSHFIELD    THE   OBSERVER 

been  mourned  as  dead ;  and  then  the  great  dole 
because  of  the  savage  mate  she  had  brought 
with  her;  and  old  Haseltine  was  all  for  having 
him  given  up  to  justice  for  his  crime;  and 
young  Haseltine  swore  he  would  stand  beneath 
the  gallows  and  see  him  safe  hanged  before 
wedding  the  widow.  But  Margaret  would 
have  none  of  this.  He  was  her  husband,  she 
told  them  briefly,  and  as  such  she  must  put  up 
with  him.  Whereupon  her  father  took  to  his 
bed,  and  young  Haseltine  left  the  farm  in  dire 
enmity  with  his  fair  cousin.  But  indeed,  as 
my  grandmother  told  me,  although  her  mother 
had  returned  in  evil  plight  enough  and  bore 
upon  her  face  the  stamp  of  much  suffering, 
never  was  she  heard  to  regret  her  first  lover  or 
to  bewail  her  present  master. 

Yet  my  great-grandfather,  Donald  MacBane 
that  is,  made  but  an  ill  ruler  of  the  farm,  and 
was  always  skirmishing  off  to  his  wild  com- 
panions or  engaged  upon  some  mad  plot  or 
expedition.  In  spite  of  these  restless  ways, 
'twas  said  that  he  loved  my  great-grandmother 
fiercely  to  the  end  of  his  life.  She  bore  him  a 
whole  house-full  of  swarthy,  gypsy-looking  lads 
and  lassies ;  and  when  he  died — and  such  as  he 
do  not  die  in  their  beds — she  wore  black  for 
him  till  her  time  came  to  lie  beside  him  once 
again. 

And  thus  it  comes  that  I  who  speak  to  you 

i6o 


THE   HERD-WIDDIEFOW 

have  a  pair  of  eyes  like  a  hawk's  under  my 
great-grandmother's  chestnut  curls;  and  that, 
though  (left  heiress  to  the  farm,  even  as  she 
was  before  me)  I  wedded  back  into  the  old 
stock,  the  babe  that  lies  in  yonder  cradle  has  a 
black  skin  and  a  frowning  brow,  and  I  know 
that  the  blood  of  the  Herd-Widdiefow  will  run 
strong  in  our  veins  so  long  as  Haseltine  reigns 
at  Haselbum. 


i6i 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 


Endymlon  in  Barracks 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance;  he  seem'd, 

To  common  lookers-on,  like  one  who  dream 'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip, 

And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands :    then  they  would  sigh 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlet's  cry, 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly.     Ah,  well-a-day, 

Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine  away ! 

— Keats. 

The  marked  influence  of  some  kinds  of 
hallucinations  on  the  course  of  mental  life  in 
the  otherwise  perfectly  sane,  is  matter  not 
only  of  tradition  but  of  tested  history.  One 
needs  hardly  hark  back  as  far  as  the  well- 
known  "Demon"  of  Socrates:  the  "voices" 
th£.t  ran  in  Joan  of  Arc's  brain  had  per- 
suasion enough  to  change  in  radical  manner 
the  current  of  her  existence.  Less  generally 
known,  but  striking  enough,  was  that  ghostly 
companion  with  the  compelling  whisper  that 
dog'ged  Descartes'  steps  in  his  own  world  of 
profound  thought.  Malebranche  also  had  his 
sod-directing  visions.  So  had  Torquato 
Tasso.     In  these  and  many  other  well  authen- 

165 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

ticated  instances  of  phantasm  the  influence 
of  the  brain-born  "familiar,"  whether  upon 
ignorant  village -maid  or  on  scholar-poet,  or 
again  on  analytical,  deep-dredging  philos- 
opher, proved  potent  and  far-reaching. 

How  many  more  cases  (had  we  but  the 
records  of  such  hauntings  in  the  lives  of  thou- 
sands of  brain- workers  unknown  to  biography) 
could  be  adduced  to  illustrate  this  theme,  no 
one  can  tell,  of  course.  But  it  appears  that 
Marshfield  has  been  able  to  observe  at  least 
one  modern  instance. 

The  case  of  Edward  Dalrymple,  examined 
in  the  light  of  what  one  knows  of  the  history 
of  such  visions,  is  not  unique ;  but  it  must  be 
of  rare  nature,  for  even  Marshfield,  ingenious 
ferreter  of  human  documents  as  he  is,  has  not 
been  able  to  find  anything  akin  to  it  in  the 
modern  records  of  specialists. 

One  evening,  in  Piccadilly,  it  seems  he  met 
this  Dalrymple,  a  college  friend  of  old,  who, 
after  many  years,  had  but  lately  returned 
from  India  with  his  regiment.  The  young 
soldier  was  passing  through  the  shaft  of  light 
thrown  by  the  brilliant  portals  of  Walsingham 
House,  and,  to  use  Marshfield's  own  pedantic 
language,  it  was  interesting  to  notice  the  loDk 
of  genuine  pleasure  that  came  into  his  wice- 
open  grey  eyes  as  he  recognised  his  comrade 
of  other  days. 

i66 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 

"Marshfield!  by  all  that  is  good!"  he 
exclaimed  cheerily.  And  Marshfield  the 
Observer  was  immediately  annexed  for  that 
evening.  They  must  dine  together,  at  the  Pig 
and  Whistle,  first  of  all — ("Beg  pardon,  the 
Naval  and  Military  Club,  I  mean,"  laughed 
Dalrymple,  with  unnecessary  explanation. 
"We're  having  a  regular  beano,  some  fellows 
of  ours,  together  to-night.")  After  dinner 
they  would  be  able  to  talk  over  old  times. 
Talk  over  old  times  .  .  .  That  sweetest  of  all 
communing  for  those  whose  ways  have  long 
been  widely  sundered ! 

In  this  wise  Marshfield,  as  supernumerary, 
was  made  to  take  part  in  a  remarkable  entertain- 
ment— a  most  welcome  event  to  one  like  him, 
ever  on  the  look-out  for  novel  impressions.  Two 
rapid  hours  were  spent  amid  the  best  joviality  of 
subalterns  on  short  leave,  keen  for  a  little  dis- 
sipation after  a  long  turn  of  foreign  service. 

And  a  refreshing  experience  it  was  for  the 
saturnine  observer,  steeped  in  the  gravity  ot 
solitary  town  habits,  to  see  round  a  table  none 
but  young,  healthy,  weather-burnt  counte- 
nances; to  mark  the  cross  fire  of  so  many 
pairs  of  merry  eyes — guiltless  enough  at  all 
times  of  any  complicated  speculation,  but 
vigorous,  and  well  open  to  the  simpler  enjoy- 
ment of  life;  to  hearken  to  the  obvious  but 
hearty  jokelet ;   to  the  post-prandial  witticism, 

167 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

bounding  forth  before  exuberance  of  spirits  as 
the  cork  flies  before  champagne  foam ;  to  the 
stingless  irony  and  anodyne  personality  ban- 
died between  brethren  in  arms  who  had  been 
in  more  than  one  "tight  place"  together  during 
the  last  few  years. 

All  this  was  as  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new 
to  the  inveterate  note-taker;  a  sort  of  blood- 
transfusion  into  the  veins  of  a  man  whose 
heart  never  seemed  to  beat  from  any  personal 
impulse;  whose  merely  receptive  soul  never 
originated  any  personal  enthusiasm  or  sub- 
jective emotion. 

Unconsciously  affectionate  pride  gilded 
every  allusion  of  the  young  ^men  to  their 
Corps,  in  their  converse  with  "the  underdone 
literary  Johnny,  Dalrymple's  pal" — as  they 
designated  their  chance  guest — unconscious 
that  they  themselves  were  in  his  eyes  little 
more  than  interesting  presentments  of  psycho- 
logical phenomena.  Civilised  youths  (Marsh- 
field  docketted  them),  who  had,  every  one  of 
them,  fleshed  his  blade,  rushed  through  the 
clamour,  chaos  and  execrations  of  carnage, 
dealt  with  Death  and  grinned  in  his  face,  and 
yet  thought  no  more  of  it  all  afterwards  than 
did  their  long-haired,  naked,  pagan  forbears. 
Great  in  its  way  was  Marshfield's  appreciation 
under  his  pale,  reluctant  smile. 

If  these,  he  thought,  were  average  samples, 

i68 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 

there  was  nought  but  the  happiest  opinion  to 
be  formed  of  the  brotherhood  in  which  Fortune 
had  cast  Dalrymple's  lot — all  the  happier  for 
the  high  popularity  that  enigmatical  fellow 
appeared  to  enjoy  among  them. 

"Oh — Dalrymple?  He  is  our  show  man,  you 
know,"  had  a  neighbour  whispered  to  Marsh- 
field. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Every  step  of  that  evening  was  as  a  whet  to 
the  Observer's  elemental  curiosity;  for,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  Army  was  the  very  last  place 
where  he  would  have  expected  the  man  he  had 
known  as  "Dalrymple  of  ^Trinity,"  to  find  a 
congenial  abode. 

The  Dalrymple  he  remembered  was  essen- 
tially a  college-bred  man — and,  moreover,  a 
creature  specially  equipped,  both  by  nature  and 
self-training,  for  the  higher  transcendent 
flights  of  purely  intellectual  life — that  rarefied 
life  with  all  its  artistic  sensitiveness,  its  prac- 
tical uselessness,  its  few  but  subtle  joys  and 
its  general  misery.  And  here,  facing  him  now, 
was  a  placid,  good-humoured  young  Briton, 
typical  of  that  rude-health,  common-sense  kind 
of  manhood  which  most  helps  to  keep  an 
empire  together. 

Since  they  had  parted  company  in  the  old 
days  of  Trinity,  great  indeed  had  been  Marsh- 
field's  desire  to  see  for  himself  how  this  fas- 

169 


/ 


MARSHFIELD  THE   OBSERVER 

tidious  exquisite  fared  in  the  atmosphere  of 
martial  life  generally,  and,  particularly,  in  the 
close  one  of  a  smart  regimental  mess.  For 
Marshfield,  who  knows  most  things,  knew  that 
the  most  disqualifying  offence  (short  of  ungen- 
tlemanly  conduct)  that  can  be  committed  by  a 
subaltern,  is  any  attempt  at  "intellectual" 
converse — a  form  of  "side"  too  pestilent  for 
words ! 

From  the  little  he  had  already  seen,  however, 
it  was  evident  that  if  ever  a  man  appeared  to 
have  taken  to  his  proper  element,  it  was 
Edward  Dalrymple.  His  bronzed  face  had 
settled  into  the  typical  countenance  of  the 
British  officer.  There  was  the  energetic  set  of 
eyes  and  mouth;  the  look  of  calm,  unobtrusive 
self-reliance;  the  reticence  to  any  emotional 
display  save  that  of  merriment  or  contempt  for 
the  "outsider"  or  the  "nigger."  His  very 
tone  of  voice,  every  shred  of  his  phraseology, 
were  so  strictly  tuned  to  the  accepted  pitch  of 
his  class  that  they  seemed  positively  natural. 
Indeed,  although  Marshfield  had  recognised 
him  at  first  glance  by  his  clean-cut  features 
and  by  something  unmistakable  in  his  carriage, 
on  closer  observation  he  could  now  hardly 
recall  one  single  element  of  the  original  Dal- 
rymple—  whose  name  was  still  a  byword  in 
the  University — Dalrymple  the  high-strung 
esthete,    whom   even   the    "Deuced    Superior 

170 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 

Set"  used  at  times  to  consider,  in  perplexed 
dismay,  as  perhaps  a  trifle  of  a  shade  too 
exclusive  in  his  artistic  culture. 

Physically,  the  man  who  had  been  noted  for 
a  somewhat  fragile  perfection  of  build  sug- 
gestive of  a  decadent  Greek  type,  and  for  a 
temperament  best  described  as  "a  bundle  of 
nerves, ' '  was  now  square  and  solid  even  to  a 
promise  of  future  stoutness.  The  only  thing 
that  had  not  changed  was  a  peculiar  sweetness 
in  the  smile,  which  was  as  striking  on  his  now 
essentially  vigorous  as  it  had  been  on  his 
whilom  nervously  sensitive,  rather  worn, 
countenance. 

Intellectually  he  seemed  to  have  sunk  wholly 
into  that  elementary  scepticism  of  apprecia- 
tion ;  that  preference  for  the  obvious  in  ideas ; 
that  level  disdain  of  mere  sentiment;  that 
habit  of  mind,  in  short,  which,  in  combination 
with  clean  athletic  tastes  and  a  reverence  for 
the  sacred  character  of  Sport,  is  all-suflficient 
(but  all-necessary)  for  the  achievement  of 
popularity  in  the  military  world. 

What  had  happened?  pondered  Marshfield. 
Truly  here  was  a  vein  of  observation  to  be 
followed  up.     A  rich  one. 

The  classical  scholar,  the  poetic  prizeman, 
the  lover  of  TibuUus  and  Ovid,  the  worshipper 
of  sensuous  music,  the  intense  dreamer  who 
in  other  days  would  express  his  ideals  in  lines 

171 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

of  Keats,  Swinburne  or  Rossetti — this  same 
creature  now  displayed  a  seemingly  appre- 
ciative acquaintance  with  the  latest  wit  of  the 
Pink  'Un;  and  on  every  forcible  occasion 
quoted  an  apposite  modern  instance  in  the 
careers  of  Jorrocks  or  Soapy  Sponge — Prodi- 
gious ! 

Marshfield,  at  bottom,  was  not  quite  con- 
vinced of  the  integrality  of  the  metamorphosis. 
Thus  the  breaking  up  in  due  time  of  that  jovial 
party  was  on  the  whole  welcome:  he  longed 
for  a  little  more  private  intercourse. 

When  the  other  men  had  departed,  the  old 
fellow-students  remained  behind  and  lounged 
and  conversed  for  a  while  in  a  desultory  way 
over  the  cigars. 

Now,  when  Marshfield  is  on  his  observing 
path,  he  handles,  as  we  all  know,  the  leading 
thread  of  conversation  with  great  skill.  But 
never,  even  during  this  second  stage,  could  he 
elicit  anything  from  his  friend  which  did  not 
tally  with  the  first  impression.  Yes  ...  of  a 
verity,  he  reluctantly  admitted,  there  was  a 
creature  in  perfect  peace  of  mind,  in  possession 
of  that  placidity  which  in  a  young  man  can 
only  co-exist  (so  Marshfield  diagnosed)  with  a 
total  absence  of  ideals.  Everything  on  that 
tranquil  face,  in  those  clear  eyes  behind  which 
perpetually  lurked  a  merry  twinkle,  proclaimed 
that  Life  was  very  good. 

172 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 

Indeed,  at  every  drift,  the  man's  talk  justi- 
fied the  proclamation :  Nothing  better  than  the 
time  he  had  had  these  few  years:  The  regi- 
ment was  the  best  of  earthly  homes  (besides 
being  the  most  superb  corps  conceivable) :  No 
existence  could  possibly  be  half  so  full  of 
excellence  as  that  of  a  soldier  of  the  Empire 
— the  hardships  of  active  service,  past  or  pros- 
pective, were  in  themselves  the  noblest  incen- 
tive to  self-esteem,  for  they  gave  dignity  to 
the  leisure  of  peace-times.  .  .  .  (At  this  point 
Marshfield  pricked  his  ears :  there  was  a  touch 
of  the  old  speculative  Dalrymple  in  that  dis- 
tinction) :  Between  Duty  well  executed  and  the 
heads  of  Sport,  so  many  and  so  pleasant  and 
withal  so  exacting,  there  was  evidently  no  time 
for  unprofitable  aspiration. 

Such,  as  to  colour,  was  Dalrymple's  autobio- 
graphical account.  It  was  delivered  with  eyes 
ever  smiling  when  they  met  the  Observer's 
searching  glance,  in  contented  tones;  and  with 
that  studiously  restricted  vocabulary  of  the 
mess-room,  that  preference  for  vague  jargon 
words  which  is  the  best  safeguard  against  the 
capital  error  of  "talking  too  clever." 

Still  Marshfield  was  not  satisfied.  He  had 
not  known  Dalrymple  so  long  in  the  character 
of  "Jeune  Fdroce"  to  accept  implicitly  this 
new  personation  of  inarticulate  subaltern. 

In  this  unsatisfying  manner  the  hour  of  the 

173 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

last  train  to  Chatham  drew  near.  Dalrymple 
rose,  and  eyed  his  old  friend  with  a  quizzical 
look — as  if  he  guessed  well  enough  his  per- 
plexed frame  of  mind. 

"If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,"  he  sug- 
gested in  his  genial  way,  "come  down  with  me 
to  Chatham.  I  can  give  you  a  shake-down  to- 
night, and  instal  you  more  comfortably  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

Marshfield  closed  greedily  with  the  offer, 
and,  having  passed  by  his  chambers  to  take 
up  the  occasional  portmanteau,  found  himself 
for  the  next  hour  whirling  along  the  most 
bone-shaking  line  in  England.  During  the 
best  part  of  that  time  he  pursued,  but  without 
better  success  in  front  of  that  quiet  contented 
face,  his  veiled  course  of  cross-examination. 
Not  one  single  allusion,  however,  to  the  frame 
of  mind  that  had  prevailed  in  the  days  of  old 
was  to  be  elicited  from  Dalrymple,  who 
serenely  eluded  all  suggestions,  direct  or  in- 
direct. 

The  obstinate  stand-off  began  to  try  Marsh - 
field's  patience  not  a  little. 

'  *  Look  here, "'  Edward  Dalrymple,  Sir, ' '  he 
said  at  last,  irritated  by  the  smile  of  his  antag- 
onist— a  smile  so  obviously  fraught  with  wilful 
unconsciousness — "this  is  becoming  ridiculous 
in  the  extreme !  Your  masquerading  in  a  new 
character  is    all   very  well,   especially  as  the 

174 


ENDYMION  IN  BARRACKS 

character  is  so  excellent  and  fits  you  so  nicely 
— yes,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  it  does  agree 
with  your  face  and  shoulders — but  between  you 
and  me,  my  friend,  it  is  masquerade !  I  take  it 
you  have  not  lost  all  memory.  What  I  want 
to  know,  what  I  mean  to  know,  is,  how  you! 
have  managed  to  cast  off  the  old  self  to  make 
room  for  the  new.  The  two  cannot  co-exist. 
You  understand  perfectly  well  what  I  mean." 

Dalrymple  continued  to  smile  at  his  cigar, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  mentally  says:  "Ah, 
I  was  waiting  for  you  there. ' '  But  when  he 
looked  up^he  merely  said,  carelessly : 

"Yes,  yes,  you  mean  all  that  tommy-rot  we 
used  to  talk  at  the  'Varsity.  Lord,  what  high 
falutin  we  did  go  in  for!" 

And  Marshfield  found  out  that  frontal  attack 
was  as  futile  as  side  manoeuvring. 

"You  renegade!"  cried  he,  with  forced  tragic 
accent,  and  gave  up  the  siege.  But  he  felt 
annoyed,  more  annoyed  indeed  than  the  case 
justified. 

On  his  side  Dalrymple  seemed  now  struck 
into  a  musing  spell.  For  the  rest  of  the 
journey  the  two  remained  silent,  gazing 
reflectively  at  each  other  under  the  twinkle  of 
the  roof -lamp. 

Nor  did  the  conversation  revive  when  they 
sallied  forth  into  the  darkness  outside  Chatham 
Station.     There  was  no  fly  in  attendance;   it 

175 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

was  a  keen  frosty  night,  clear  and  star- 
bespangled  to  the  utmost  glory.  In  silence, 
covering  their  heads  and  shoulders  with  the 
same  rug,  for  the  breeze,  slight  as  it  blew,  was 
nipping  to  ears  and  nape,  they  tramped  up  the 
steep  slopes  towards  the  Barracks.  Not  a  word 
was  pronounced,  save  when  Dalrymple,  in  his 
clear  ringing  voice,  answered  with  the  Shib- 
boleth, ''Friends!''  the  challenging,  ''Halt, 
who  goes  there?''  of  the  various  sentries  they 
passed  from  time  to  time. 

Chatham  Barracks  have  now  been  pulled 
down  and  replaced  by  modern  improvements. 
In  those  days  the  officers'  quarters  were 
aligned,  a  long  row  of  ricketty  houses,  on  an 
elm-grown  terrace  overlooking  the  parade 
ground ;  they  wore,  especially  in  dusky  light, 
a  picturesque  look,  of  the  kind  more  usually 
associated  with  old  world  alms-houses  than 
with  military  buildings.  There  was,  in  fact, 
something  almost  collegiate,  Inn-of-Courts 
like,  about  the  wooden  stairs,  winding  and 
crazy,  about  the  low-ceiled,  panelled  rooms, 
the  uneven  board  flooring,  the  diamond  paned 
windows,  the  queer  old  fire  grates,  adorned 
with  the  monogram  of  Georgius  Tertius  Rex 
and  canting  arms  of  the  Ordnance  Store 
Department  which  had  supplied  these  wasteful 
contrivances. 

176 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

In  one  of  these  still  glowed  darkly  an  enor- 
mous stack  of  the  Government's  bituminous 
slate,  Dalrymple,  who  on  coming  into  the 
warmer  atmosphere  of  his  own  ground  seemed 
to  have  recovered  all  his  gaiety,  announced  his 
purpose  of  devoting  this  chamber  to  his  guest's 
comfort  for  the  night.  He  addressed  himself 
vigorously  to  the  task  of  poking  the  coals  into 
a  blaze,  heating  water  for  a  night-cap  (stiff  and 
strong)  and  ministering  general  hospitaHty  in 
the  best  style  of  soldier-like  geniality. 

Then,  with  a  last  look  round  and  a  parting 
smile  at  the  Observer  from  the  doorway,  which 
he  filled  almost  entirely,  he  announced  his 
intention  "to  go  and  roost  next  door," 

Marshfield  was  so  desirous  of  inspecting  in 
greater  detail  the  modern  dwelling  of  this  per- 
plexing fellow — for  a  bachelor's  room,  he 
held,  is  full  of  revelation  concerning  his  true 
inwardness — that  he  never  even  thought  of 
deprecating,  however  feebly,  the  surrender  by 
his  host  of  what  was  in  all  probability  the  only 
decent  quarter  available  just  then.  No  sooner 
was  he  alone  than  he  began  his  "journey  round 
my  room." 

Of  course  the  most  immediately  attractive 
points  of  interest  on  such  a  journey  are  the 
book-cases.  Within  limits,  they  stand  as  an 
implied  confession  of  personal  tastes  and  drift 
of  mind.      Here,  however,  indications  again 

177 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

failed  to  show  any  variance  from  what  Marsh- 
field  persisted  in  regarding  as  a  mere  pretence 
of  character  in  his  friend.  The  array  of 
printed  matter,  goodly  enough  for  one  of  no 
fixed  abode,  displayed  only  the  thin  red  line  of 
military  "Manuals"  of  drill  and  encampment; 
of  musketry,  signalling,  fieldworks,  military 
law  at  large  with  special  conspectus  of  courts- 
martial  ;  of  range-finding  and  meat-inspection, 
with  now  and  then  a  more  bulky  tome  on  forti- 
fication, administration,  operations  of  war  and 
applied  tactics — all  stuff  to  the  same  purpose, 
as  the  Observer  noted  with  unabating  scepti- 
cism. 

He  looked  for  a  Bible,  suddenly  recollecting 
how  Dalrymple  had  been  wont  to  quote  with 
enthusiasm  from  the  "Song  of  Songs"  and  the 
Psalms ;  how  he  had  revelled  in  all  that  glow- 
ing imagery  of  old-world  Eastern  thought, 
rendered  into  noblest  English:  ...  he  found 
only  the  regulation  New  Testament,  bound^  in 
oilcloth. 

On  the  walls  neither  picture  nor  print;  on 
the  mantelpiece,  not  even  the  photograph  of 
some  "girl  at  home,"  "fashionable  beauty," 
dancer  or  favourite  actress — those  all  but 
inevitable  adornments  of  the  subaltern's 
quarters. 

Two  ordnance  maps  (much  pointed)  of  the 
Northwest  Frontier,  and  of  Burmah;   another 

178 


ENDYMION   IN    BARRACKS 

of  Kent  (on  a  large,  hunting  scale),  afforded  the 
only  relief  to  the  bareness  of  the  panels.  As 
for  the  rest  of  the  movables,  limited  to  the 
strict  necessary,  it  was  of  the  most  cunning 
camp-furniture  order. 

Not  the  habitat  of  the  over-imaginative,  con- 
cluded Marshfield,  more  and  more  interested. 
The  only  symptom  which  might,  in  accordance 
with  the  modern  doctrine  of  degeneracy,  indi- 
cate a  step  away  from  barbarian  simplicity, 
was  the  studious  symmetry,  the  precision  of 
neatness,  which  prevailed  in  the  room.  Swords 
and  belts,  revolvers,  field-glasses,  single-sticks, 
canes,  hunting  crops,  polo-clubs,  gun  case  and 
bandoliers,  a  couple  of  pig-sticking  lances,  were 
arranged  with  a  luxury  of  smartness  which 
made  Marshfield  pause  in  his  puzzled  contem- 
plation. The  shadow  of  a  smile  crept  at 
length  on  his  lips. 

*'It  almost  points  to  the7mental  weakness  of 
the  Total  Abstainer.  .  .  .  An  odd  case,"  he 
mused,  as  he  prepared  at  last  to  retire  into  the 
truckle  bed,  hard  and  narrow — a  couch  by  no 
means  suggestive  of  that  "Throne  of  Dreams," 
about  which  the  Dalrymple  of  old  had  so  often 
waxed  dithyrambic.  "I  am  glad  I  have  seen 
it." 

•  ••••« 

Sound  or  prolonged  sleep  is  not  a  thing  to 
which  the  unaccustomed  visitor  in   Barracks 

179 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

can  look  forward.  Marshfield  was  awakened 
by  reveille.  And  being  kept  awake  by  the 
increasing  turmoil;  being  moreover  not  par- 
ticularly warm  or  comfortable  on  his  succinct 
couch,  he  rose  and  dressed,  all  in  the  grey 
light  of  a  frosty  morning,  and  sallied  forth  for 
a  brisk  tramp. 

When,  an  hour  later,  he  returned  to  his 
quarters,  mistaking  the  door  on  his  landing,  he 
found  he  had  entered  the  room  into  which,  with 
hospitable  renunciation,  Dalrymple  had  re- 
tired. It  was  a  kind  of  servant's  bunk,  con- 
taining a  barrack  bedstead,  a  small  company 
of  treed  boots  on  a  shelf,  a  saddle  or  two,  the 
morning  tub  and  can,  empty  portmanteaux 
and  regimentals  on  their  stretchers. 

Rolled  up  in  sundry  blankets,  with  a  great- 
coat under  his  head,  for  the  bed  was  unfitted, 
Dalrymple  seemed  profoundly  asleep.  Marsh- 
field,  having  contemplated  the  scene  for  a 
moment,  was  about  to  retire  quietly,  when  his 
attention  was  aroused  by  the  singular  expres- 
sion on  the  sleeper's  face. 

The  young  man  was  lying  on  his  back ;  the 
head  was  thrown  up  in  a  striking  attitude ;  one 
hand  was  under  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the 
other  rested  on  the  forehead,  palm  upwards. 
This  position  of.  the  arms  higher  than  the 
shoulders  is  one  preliminary  to  the  waking 
change    after    deep     slumber — as    Marshfield 

i8o 


ENDYMION   IN    BARRACKS 

knew,  who  was  the  learned  in  many  such 
unconsidered  facts.  That  alone  might  have 
tempted  him  to  pursue  a  short  physiognomical 
study  from  his  point  of  vantage ;  for  nothing  is 
sacred  to  the  Observer,  But  what  riveted  his 
interest  for  the  moment  was  the  ecstatic 
drawing  of  the  man's  features. 

The  winter  sun,  darting  in  a  clear  blue  sky 
over  the  crest  of  Chatham  lines,  had  just  begun 
to  peer  into  the  little  room.  A  pale  gold  shaft 
of  light  was  even  then  moving  across  the  sleep- 
er's face.  Now,  under  its  caress,  the  lips 
grew  tremulous;  the  nostrils  quivered  for  an 
instant;  the  lids  became  lengthened  under 
raised  brows,  and  all  of  a  sudden  they  were 
filled  with  tears,  which  presently  streamed  on 
his  cheek.  Then,  with  a  great  sigh,  the 
sleeper  awoke;  there  came  a  certain  rigidity 
over  his  frame,  and  the  hurried  rhythm  of  his 
breath  ceased.  But  for  some  time  he  made  no 
movement. 

After  a  while,  however,  he  sat  bolt  upright, 
opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  into  space.  What 
he  still  saw  before  him  was  evidently  marvel- 
lous ;  never  had  Marshfield  seen  on  human  face 
an  expression  of  such  overpowering  wonder, 
such  ecstatic  joy! 

He,  too,  held  his  breath  and  watched,  and 
for  a  long  while  silence  filled  the  room.  Pres- 
ently, however,  heavy  steps  resounded  on  the 

i8i 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

stairs,  and  a  soldier-servant,  laden  with  hot- 
water  cans,  pushed  the  door  open  with  his 
foot.  The  dreamer's  spell  was  broken.  Dal- 
rymple  started,  turned  his  head,  and  perceived 
his  friend's  presence. 

"Ah,  Marshfield,"  he  said,  with  the  effort  of 
one  whose  brain  action  is  divided.  There  was 
an  instinctive  attempt  at  cheeriness,  but  the 
voice  was  toneless.  "Up  before  me?  .  .  . 
Goodman!  .  .  .  Cold?  .  .  .  Go  down  to  the 
Mess,  there'll  be  a  fire.  .  .  .  The  fellows'll 
look  after  you.  .   .  .  I'll  be  round  in  a  jiffy." 

Even  as  he  spoke  with  spasmodic  joviality, 
the  absent,  dazed  expression  had  not  left  his 
face.  Marshfield  left  him  standing  upright, 
and  still  wistfully  contemplating  his  inner 
thought. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

The  duty  that  devolved  that  morning  on  Dal- 
rymple  was  the  command  of  the  Convict 
Picket. 

This  is  the  most  unpleasant  day's  work  that 
falls  to  the  lot  of  every  subaltern  in  the  garri- 
son of  Chatham.  At  nine  o'clock  the  officer 
detailed  marches  his  party,  served  with  ball 
cartridge,  to  the  guard-house  at  the  Prison 
Gate.  There,  until  nightfall  (when  the  army 
of  felons  is  once  more  returned  to  its  cells  and 
bolted  in)  he  has  to  dwell,  strapped  and 
buckled,   girded  against  all  emergencies  and 

182 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

backed  by  the  most  explicit  and  draconian 
orders. 

As  a  rule,  however,  the  actual  work  is 
limited  to  the  frequent  visiting  of  sentries,  the 
reiterated  turning  out  of  the  guard  on  the 
approach  of  blue,  drab  or  yellow  parties  of 
slaves,  as  they  are  marched  out  to  daily  toil, 
or  back  to  midday  food,  or  in  again  for  the 
night's  lock-up. 

But  for  the  officer  in  his  dismal  office  next  to 
the  soldier's  room  the  hours  wearily  drag  their 
length.  On  this  account,  and  although  against 
regulations,  the  custom  of  the  service  tolerates 
the  practice  of  harbouring  visitors,  so  long  as 
the  Queen's  Service  is  not  allowed  to  suffer. 
Thus  it  was  that  the  afternoon  found  Marsh- 
field,  expectant,  scalpel  in  hand,  so  to  speak, 
as  "anatomiser  of  melancholy,"  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  subject. 

A  change  had  come  over  Dalrymple,  singular 
indeed  by  contrast  to  the  buoyant  serenity  of 
the  previous  day. 

He  was  as  a  man  who  has  sustained  a  severe 
mental  shock,  whose  natural  system  of  thought 
is  unhinged.  That  morning,  in  the  messroom, 
over  the  hasty  breakfast  before  march- 
ing off  his  picket,  he  had  been  silent,  absent- 
minded  ;  he  had  mused  over  his  cup,  which  he 
left  half  full,  and  if  he  had  eaten  anything  it 
had  been  mere  mechanical  nibbling — ^he  had 

183 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

seemed  barely  to  hear  what  was  said  to  him  or 
around  him,  and  had  spoken  at  random.  He  had 
been,  in  fact,  as  one  who  listens  to  unheard 
voices,  who  gazes  through  stone  walls  at 
unseen  vistas. 

"Dalrymple  seems  chippy,  poor  chappy," 
genially  remarked  in  the  vernacular  one  young 
warrior  to  the  guest.  "Never  seen  him  like 
this  before.  Generally  crisp  as  celery  in  the 
morning.  I  thought  he  was  too  full  of  beans, 
when  he  went  up  yesterday.  The  little  village 
seems  to  have  knocked  it  out  of  him!" 

And  Marshfield  had  pondered. 

And  now,  as  they  sat  on  wooden  chairs  one 
on  each  side  of  the  fire,  in  the  bare,  ochre- 
washed  cell,  the  same  haunting  spirit  seemed 
to  hang  over  the  scarlet-tunicked,  white-belted 
youth. 

But,  whereas,  in  the  mess-room  his  impa- 
tience of  talk  around  him,  his  unconscious 
dread  of  questions  which  might  force  him  to 
speak  himself,  had  been  the  main  symptom 
observable,  in  the  silent  intimacy  of  the  guard- 
house there  seemed  to  rise  in  him  a  new 
desire,  a  yearning  to  speak,  merely  restrained 
by  a  sort  of  bashfulness;  the  bashfulness  of 
surrender. 

Marshfield  was  in  his  element,  and  handled 
the  situation  in  his  best  manner.  He  sat  still, 
seemingly  immersed    in   the    absolute  enjoy- 

184 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

ment  of  the  best  of  cigars,  but  gazing  at  his 
friend  with  his  cat-like  look,  to  all  appearance 
profoundly  indifferent,  yet  alertly  observant. 

Over  and  over  again  did  Dalrymple  take  the 
breath  which,  like  the  catch  of  a  clock  about 
to  strike,  portends  coming  speech,  then  closed 
his  parting  lips  and  remained  dumb,  staring 
musingly  at  the  fiery  bars  of  the  hearth,  or, 
with  head  thrown  back,  through  the  frost- 
framed  windows  into  grey-blue  space. 

At  last  he  began — no  longer  with  the  studied 
disjointedness,  the  slang  of  camp  and  mess, 
but  with  that  cultured  precision  of  wording 
and  phrasing  which  had  been  one  of  the  lead- 
ing marks  in  the  "Deuced  Superior  Set." 

"Marshfield,"  he  said,  "I  have  that  on  my 
mind  which  must  find  voice  .  .  .  had  I  to  tell 
it  to  the  clouds,  to  the  winds,  to  the  rushes!" 

Marshfield  pricked  up  his  ears,  if  possible, 
more  attentively  than  before.  Dalrymple  had 
risen  and  was  now  pacing  the  narrow  cell  in 
some  excitement.  His  steel  scabbard  clanked 
against  the  wall  at  each  short  turn. 

"It  is  a  wondrous  coincidence  that  you 
should  be  near  me  to-day;  for,  certes,  there  is 
no  one  I  know  at  present  to  whom  I  would 
tell  what  has  happened  to  me.  Coincidence? 
Indeed,  it  is  to  you  I  owe  the  delight,  the 
revelation " 

He    stopped   a    moment,    with    his    fingers 

i8s 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

lightly  pressing  his  temples,  plunged  again 
into  a  sudden  depth  of  wondering.  "It  is  your 
doing,  of  course.  Yes,  you  are  the  uncon- 
scious evoker — Did  you  not  call  out,  Renegade ! 
.  .  .  Renegade?    Ah,  great  Gods!" 

For  a  moment  something  like  a  reflex  of  the 
ecstatic  look  that  had  transfigured  the  sleeping 
man  that  morning  passed  over  his  face, 
Marshfield,  on  his  side,  still  silent,  was  the 
living  image  of  expectant  curiosity.  His 
friend,  from  the  midst  of  his  dream,  noted  the 
expression  and  was  once  more  brought  back  to 
the  actual. 

"Listen,  Marshfield,"  he  said,  sitting  down 
again  and  mechanically  beginning  to  stir  the 
fire.  "I  shall  tell  you.  Yesterday  you  wanted 
to  know ;  to-day  you  shall  know.  It  is  curious, 
and  you  are  perhaps  the  only  one  who  could 
understand  such  a  posture  of  affairs.  More- 
over, it  was  undoubtedly  brought  about  by 
your  talk,  by  the  siege  you  laid  before  my  con- 
demned thoughts.  I  had  shut  out  a  portion  of 
my  House  of  Life,  as  a  man  might  cut  off  a 
haunted  wing  of  his  mansion,  and  you  guessed 
it.  I  will  tell  you,  while  the  impress  is  still 
fresh  upon  me.  To-morrow  it  may  have  faded 
already.  Yes,  no  doubt,  to-morrow  it  will 
have  faded.  * ' 

This  was  said  after  a  pause,  on  the  wake  of  a 
light  sigh.     But  he  pulled  himself  together : 

i86 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

"You  know,"  he  pursued,  "the  sort  of  man 
I  was  in  the  old  days. ' ' 

This  Marshfield  knew  indeed,  and  nodded 
with  some  impatience. 

"But  you  don't  know,  perhaps,  at  what  a 
pace  that  pride  of  mental  self-indulgence  was 
making  for  mental  disgrace.  I  realised  it  one 
day ;  not  a  day  too  soon !     And  yet ' ' 

He  hesitated  one  moment,  as  though  some 
unseen  pressure  at  his  elbow  had  cautioned 
him — Then : 

"Reason  prevailed  in  time,"  he  went  on, 
with  an  effort.  "Free-will  was  still  untouched. 
One  morning,  waking  from  some  mad  Olym- 
pian dream  to  the  dreary  imperfection  of  this 
every-day  world,  in  despair  I  asked  myself: 
Which  was  the  real  existence — the  dream  of 
my  own  special  world,  the  dream  that  could 
make  impressions  so  much  more  vivid  than 
anything  experienced  in  waking  life,  that  could 
wring  my  soul,  aye,  stir  my  senses,  to  a  pitch 
of  exquisiteness  inconceivable  in  the  midst  of 
waking  reason?  or  the  world  of  my  neighbour 
man,  which  at  almost  every  step  disclosed 
some  hideousness  of  pain,  sorrow,  ugliness; 
at  almost  every  hour  trammelled  my  yearning 
for  perfection  in  delight  and  beauty  with  its 
Briarean  arms  of  duty,  impotence,  reason, 
morals,  pity  and  what  not ;  that  ever  clutched 
at  my  imagination  and  pinned  me  to  grimy 

187 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

earth?  that  waking  world  that  never  allows 
any  one  more  than  a  transient,  flash-like 
revelation  of  the  ideal — revelation  born  of 
some  startling  phrase  in  the  unknown  tongue 
of  music,  some  mysteriously  eloquent  harmony 
of  words  in  verse,  some  burst  of  colour,  glor- 
ious beyond  realisation  or  delicate  beyond 
belief;  some  perfume  swoon  sweet,  robbing 
one  of  all  strength  and  will?" 

Marshfield  revelled  in  his  case.  Not  more 
jubilantly  could  the  detective  watch  the  sudden 
unravelling  by  unforeseen  confession,  of  a 
baffling  tangle  of  mere  surmises. 

"I  remember,"  said  Dalrymple,  "that  crit- 
ical morning.  It  was  a  miserable  November 
day.  Even  our  noble  old  college  courts 
seemed  trivial  and  dreary,  ugly  beyond  the 
mending  of  hope.  And  when,  with  greater 
wakefulness,  it  forced  itself  upon  me  that  this 
trivial  world  of  ours  was  the  real  world  after 
all,  a  sort  of  despair  encompassed  my  soul. 
Then,  oddly  enough,  a  sudden  reaction  set  in — 
Whence  it  came,  I  cannot  tell,  for  I  was  far 
gone  already  in  that  mental  hyperaesthesia 
which  means  the  very  emasculation  of  the 
soul.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  as  I  said,  the  reaction 
came.  A  sort  of  terror  stole  over  me;  tJiat  way 
lay  madness!  Not  only  unfitness  to  fulfil  man's 
part  in  this  fighting  world,  but  positive  mad- 
ness.'     This  ever  present    shadow   of    feeble 

x88 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

melancholia,  the  futile  yearning  for  the  trans- 
cendental, the  weak  dread  of  all  ugly  impres- 
sions, the  abject  fear  of  painful  sights.  .  .  . 
An  evil  smell,  a  discordant  noise — calamities! 
Mere  coarseness  of  thought  or  speech,  sufficient 
to  cast  a  shadow  of  odiousness  on  the  moment. 
What  is  it  all,  but  madness?  On  the  other 
hand,  the  mysterious  note  of  a  thrush  saluting 
the  sinking  sun  sufficing  to  hypnotise  one  into 
visions  untranslatable,  a  strain  of  passionate 
melody  to  make  you  soar  into  visions  of  joy 
unrealisable,  a  glint  of  slanting  sunrays  in  liv- 
ing verdure,  a  whisper  of  the  breeze  soughing 
among  the  branches,  becoming  a  sort  of 
mystic,  elusive  aphrodisiacs,  that  sets  one 
musing  upon  loves  of  goddesses  on  Mount 
Latmos  —  madness  again!  Madness  which 
made  one  look  upon  living  women  and  the 
real  world  with  disgust  and  contempt!" 

During  this  curious  confession  Marshfield 
noted  how  the  serene  impassiveness  that  had 
baffled  him  so  completely  on  the  previous  da)'-, 
had  now,  like  a  mask,  fallen  away  from  his 
friend's  countenance.  Here  was  once  more 
the  face  of  the  high-strung  degenerate  of  old, 
the  face  on  which  every  pulse  of  thought 
seemed  to  play  as  on  a  harp. 

Dalrymple  had  paused,  as  if  he  found  a 
difficulty  in  formulating  his  ideas. 

'Well,"  he  cried  at  last,  "words — words  in 

189 


n-\ 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

prose,  at  least — are  incompetent  to  record 
impressions  so  evanescent  yet  so  haunting. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  had  a  fright.  What  was 
to  be  done?  I  remember  there  were,  at  that 
time,  two  suicides  whose  story  had  come  under 
my  notice.  One  was  that  of  an  adoring  disciple 
of  Wagner,  who,  in  despair  of  ever  reaching 
the  plane  of  the  Master,  of  ever  being  able 
even  to  fathom  to  the  full  the  endless  sugges- 
tion of  his  music,  poisoned  himself,  thus  leav- 
ing behind  him  the  misery  of  a  hunt  for  the 
unattainable.  .  .  .  Leaving  also  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  madman,  though  I  knew  him  to  be  as 
sane  as  I  myself.  Ay  sane  as  I — as  I!  The 
other  was  that  of  an  artist,  quite  obscure,  yet  a 
genius  in  his  way,  who  spent  his  soul  in  repro- 
ducing, in  thousands,  sketches  of  a  woman's 
head,  all  weird,  demoniacal  almost,  but  no  two 
alike!  Yet  he  said  they  were  portraits  of  the 
same  phantom!  One  morning  he  was  found 
dead  in  his  studio  arm-chair.  Charcoal  was  his 
remedy!  On  the  stone  floor  was  a  pile  of  ashes : 
every  sketch  had  been  burned,  and,  with  the 
smoke  of  the  holocaust,  his  distracted  soul  had 
evaporated.  Verdict:  unsound  mind!  Now,  I 
had  not  an  idea  of  suicide.  But,  as  I  contem- 
plated the  endless  dissatisfaction  of  this  dual  life, 
a  great  dread  came  over  me.  Was  I  also  em- 
barked upon  that  dismal  current?  What  was 
to  be  done?     Something  had  to  be  done  if  I 

190 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

was  not  to  drift  into  some  such  neurotic, 
hysterical  decadent,  dying  of  a  rose,  sobbing 
over  a  sunset;  a  bag  of  nervous  selfishness, 
with  perhaps  opium  or  hasheesh  in  perspective 
to  complete  the  degradation!  Whether  the 
fright  was  greater  than  the  case  justified  I  do 
not  know,  but  a  complete  break  seemed  the 
only  salvation.  No  compromise.  Temper- 
ance would  not  do:  it  was  a  case  of  total 
abstinence!     Now  you  begin  to  understand?" 

"I  see  it  as  if  I  had  been  there,"  said  Marsh- 
field.  "You  have  done  it  well,  I  must  own," 
he  added,  not  without  a  touch  of  admiration. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  curious  thing  to  listen  to  the 
square-shouldered,  deep-chested  Dalrymple, 
with  his  cropped  soldier  head,  in  his  trim, 
tight  scarlet  and  gold,  portraying  his  past  self 
in  these  terms  of  aestheticism. 

"So,  from  one  day  to  the  other,  the  resolve 
was  made.  I  burnt  my  poems,  sold  my  books, 
locked  my  piano — nor  has  any  one  these  eight 
years  even  suspected  I  could  play  aught  but 
the  vamping  to  a  music-hall  song.  .  ,  .  Ad- 
mit, Marshfield,  this  was  strength  of  mind!" 
he  added,  looking  up  at  his  friend  suddenly 
with  something  of  a  rueful  gleam  in  his  eyes. 
"There  was  just  time  to  get  through  the  Army 
examinations — Well  .  .  .  well,  and  here  we 
are,"  he  concluded,  getting  up.  "And  the 
oddest  thing  about  it  all  is  that,  hard  as  the 

191 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

wrench  from  the  old  vice  was  at  first,  and  hard 
the  new  education — for  it  was  like  beginning 
life  afresh — I  have  been  perfectly  happy. 
Peace  of  mind,  you  know,  peace  of  mind.  No 
self-communing,  but  one  simple  rule:  duty. 
Or,  in  less  high-sounding  words:  the  day's 
work  .  .  .  and  the  custom  of  the  service !  You 
have  no  idea  how  fresh  and  strong  that  makes 
one  feel.  No  groping,  no  yearning,  no  moodi- 
ness, no  melancholia.  Thankfulness  for  small 
mercies,  that  is,  for  small  pleasure,  and  crude 
satisfaction  in  life,  if  shorn  of  transcendent 
joys:  they  are  too  dearly  bought,  'twere  better 
never  to  have  had  taste  of  them,  for  they  seem 
to  take  unto  themselves  for  their  brief 
moments  all  the  salt  and  scent  of  life,  and 
leave  the  work-a-day  world  ashen  to  every 
sense." 

Dalrymple  remained  a  moment  musing. 

"The  transcendent  temperament,"  he 
resumed  at  last,  sitting  down  again  and  look- 
ing thoughtfully  into  his  friend's  expectant 
eyes,  "must  really  be  a  vice.  It  is  like  the 
relentless  fiend,  always  keeping  watchful  siege 
on  those  who  have  once  dallied  with  him,  let 
them  believe  themselves  never  so  secure; 
always  ready  to  assail  at  the  first  unguarded 
moment.  It  is  a  veritable  temptation  of  St. 
Anthony!  The  stout  old  Saint  resisted,  we 
are  told.      But  then   perhaps   he  had  not   so 

192 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

many  weak  intellectual  joints  as  the  modern 
visionary,  so  many  traitors  in  his  citadel,  so 
to  speak.  He  resisted  .  .  .  and  suffered.  But 
he  could  not  have  suffered  as  we.  And  at 
least  his  temptation  ended  in  relief,  when  the 
vision  disappeared,  whereas " 

"Whereas,  with  you,  you  love  your  tempta- 
tion ! ' '  said  Marshfield,  who  had  hitherto  pru- 
dently refrained  from  any  comment,  which 
might  break  the  spell  of  revelation. 

The  athletic  chest  rose  under  a  weary  sigh. 

"Aye,  I  fear  I  do! — I  have  had  a  relapse, 
most  obviously.  And  what  is  worse,  I  feel  that 
I  would  not,  for  a  fortune,  for  anything  I  can 
think  of,  except  my  own  self-esteem,  that  this 
strange,  this  marvellous  vision  had  passed  me 
by."  His  voice  rose  with  suppressed  enthusi- 
asm. "Since  it  was  that  word  of  yours,  caba- 
listic it  would  seem,  that  has  evoked  it,  I  shall 
even  finish  my  confession.  Phrases  of  accepted 
language  are  inadequate  to  describe ;  they  can 
only  suggest.  We  can  paint  in  words  some- 
thing of  horror  and  pain,  and  sorrow,  because 
horror,  pain  and  sorrow  are  always  so  near  to 
our  lives  that  words  have  associations  with 
them.  Whereas  ideal  beauty  and  unmixed, 
soul- ravishing  joys  are  too  far  removed  from 
life.  You  must  interpret,  interpret  as  the 
artist,  as  the  poet  does,  by  music,  by  symbol- 
ism, by  allegory.     You,  I  know,  will  not  be 

193 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

able  to  realise  what  happened  to  me  this  morn- 
ing, you  can  only  suspect.  .  .  .     But  listen : 

"Somewhere,  in  Time  and  Space,  as  I  lay  this 
morning,  there  came  upon  me,  from  amid  the 
annihilation  of  deepest  sleep,  a  consciousness  of 
some  new  life-infused  personality,  fast  unfold- 
ing, as  one  may  see  behind  the  blue  sky  line  of 
a  hill  some  dazzling  white  cloud  rise  and 
spread  itself  in  splendour.  It  was  an  inex- 
plicable feeling  of  glorious  expectation. 
Then,  I  saw  Her— the  Vision,  but  more  real," 
said  the  young  man,  without  an  inflection,  and 
looking  wistfully  beyond,  not  at  his  friend, 
"more  real  than  you." 

"Ah,  a  woman!"  said  Marshfield,  and  his 
lips  parted  in  their  thin  satirical  smile. 

"A  woman,  of  course,"  repeated  the  other, 
unmoved,  "for  when  we  must  symbolise  the 
Beautiful,  the  most  abstract,  we  must  of  neces- 
sity materialise  it  under  lines  of  beauty,  the 
most  perfect  in  themselves,  the  most  har- 
monious in  their  changes.  Yet,  though  She 
stood  before  me,  a  symbol,  it  was  a  living 
woman.  Instinct,  indeed,  with  so  much 
vitality  that,  as  she  looked  at  me  with  pro- 
found luminous  eyes,  she  seemed  to  fill  me 
with  unbounded  life  and  make  my  whole  being 
attuned,  as  a  bell,  to  the  vibration  of  her 
voice. 

"There  was  a  sort  of  wistful  joy  on  her  face, 

194 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

the  shadow  of  a  smile,  a  brilliancy  of  passion 
trembling  upon  realisation.  When  I  say  I 
saw,  I  might  as  aptly  say  I  felt  or  I  heard,  for 
every  fibre  of  me  was  responsive  to  her  pres- 
ence. 'Ah, Renegade,'  said  she,  and  there  came 
into  the  glance,  tinder  which  I  was  encom- 
passed as  by  a  caressing  mantle,  an  enchant- 
ment beyond  words ;  it  was  a  sort  of  mocking 
tenderness,  under  the  joy  of  recovered  love. 
'  I  knew  you  would  come  back '  ' ' 

Dalrymple's  voice,  as  he  repeated  these 
words,  had  changed,  as  if  in  his  own  manly 
tones  he  unconsciously  sought  to  echo  some 
distant  impossible  note, 

"'Ah,  Well  Beloved,'  said  she  (She,  the 
Great  Joy  of  Man's  Desire! — thus  only  can  I 
attempt  to  describe  her),  and  extended  her 
arms.  And  as,  slowly,  irresistibly  as  Fate,  she 
gathered  me  close  to  her,  the  touch  of  her 
shoulder  was  a  thing  to  marvel  at,  smooth  and 
fresh  as  polished  marble  yet  pulsing  and 
responsive  to  passionate  blood.  She  smiled, 
and  in  the  transient  gleam  of  her  teeth  between 
lips  of  living  rose,  in  the  proud  flash  of  her  eye 
— green-brown,  like  a  gleam  of  sun  through  a 
forest  in  June — all  the  glory  of  the  world's 
colour  burst  before  my  vision.  With  a  laugh 
that  was  like  the  joyous  ripple  of  a  brook,  she 
swayed  in  my  arms  as  the  sapling  sways  in  the 
breeze,  and  her  hair,  Aphrodite's  own  mane, 

195 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

fell  like  a  golden  cataract  over  me,  filling  the 
air  with  the  fragrance  of  Paradise — the  breath 
of  the  red  rose  in  its  pride,  the  flower  of  Great 
Desire,  with  its  endless,  unattainable,  incom- 
prehensible perfection.  She  bent  to  me,  and 
the  taste  of  her  lips  ..." 

Here  the  young  man  fell  to  silence,  becom- 
ing once  more,  as  Marshfield  saw,  quite  ab- 
stracted from  his  surroundings.  In  the  little 
dark  room  his  countenance  seemed  almost  to 
be  faintly  luminous,  as  if  actually  reflecting 
some  distant  glory  of  light.  Of  his  own 
accord,  however,  and  to  all  appearance  as 
unconsciously  as  he  had  ceased  it,  after  a  while 
he  resumed  his  narrative. 

"She  said  to  me — in  the  words  of  Thais  of 
Athens — she  said:  'Thou  shalt  indeed  be 
King  among  men,  and  I,  thy  goddess,  shall 
give  thee  that  kingdom. '  And  on  her  words 
vast  horizons  were  spread  before  me,  resplen- 
dent with  colour,  alive  with  Olympian  revela- 
tion. Her  voice  was  a  melody,  heart-stirring 
to  exquisite  pain.  Her  whole  presence,  while 
it  filled  my  intellectual  faculties  with  that  com- 
pleteness of  joy  that  baffles  even  Desire,  roused 
my  bodily  senses  to  an  equal  pitch  of  delight. 
I  have  still,"  said  Dalrymple,  opening  his  hand 
and  nervously  stretching  his  fingers,  "some- 
thing of  that  unspeakable  sensation  of  touch. 
It  came  back  as  an  echo  just  now,  even  as  I 

196 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

felt  the  cold  hilt  of  my  sword.  'Thou  shalt  be 
King  among  men  ..."  I  almost  wish, ' '  he 
added,  with  a  sort  of  anger,  "shehad  not  said 
that.     The  words  haunt  me. ' ' 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
pacing  of  the  sentry  outside,  and  the  muffled 
sound  of  hoarse  laughter  *"  from  the  adjacent 
guard-room. 

"It  was  Aspasia's  saying,  you  know — not 
Thais',"  said  Marshfield  (the  omniscient  even 
to  the  tradition  of  the  great  Priestesses  of 
Love),  unable  to  resist  the  pedantic  oppor- 
tunity—"But,  well?" 

"Well,"  said  Dalrymple,  who  started  from 
his  fresh  musing  and  looked  round  with  a  blank 
stare,  "that  is  all.  Something  disturbed  me. 
The  glory  faded.  I  found  myself  bare  and 
cold,  and  j'-et  half-drunk  with  the  memory. 
And  now " 

Here,  suddenly,  arose  from  without  the 
raucous  call  of  the  sentry:  "Guard,  turn  out!" 
Hurried  footsteps,  the  clanging  of  butt  ends 
on  the  pavement,  the  sergeant's  rapid  com- 
mand, told  of  the  picket  falling  in,  and  rudely 
called  back  the  forgetful  Dalrymple  from  his 
classical  roaming.  He  sprang  up,  but  not 
before  the  door  was  angrily  opened  to  admit 
the  Captain  of  the  day. 

It  was  an  Officer  of  Engineers,  rusty  of  hair, 
purple  of  countenance,  who,  without  acknowl- 

197 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

edging  the   subaltern's  salute,   called   out  in 
needlessly  overbearing  tones : 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Sir?  Your 
guard  never  turned  out  till  I  was  almost  at  the 
door.  Your  men  don't  know  their  work,  Sir. 
What  were  you  about — Asleep?  You  don't 
look  quite  awake  yet.  Now,  Sir,  nothing  to 
report?  Of  course !  This  is  not  the  way  to  do 
duty,  as  I  shall  take  care  that  you  are  made 
aware.  Perhaps,  in  future,  the  rules  as  to 
convict  guard  may  be  better  enforced!"  with  a 
frown  at  the  impassible  Marshfield.  "Now 
you  may  turn  your  guard  in."  And  the 
Engineer,  delighted  no  doubt  at  bottom  to 
catch  a  linesman  tripping,  betook  himself  to 
another  part  of  his  round. 

Dalrymple,  blushing  with  vexation,  stood  a 
moment  silent,  biting  his  lip;  then  he  went 
out  and  mechanically  dismissed  the  guard. 

"Never  had  to  swallow  a  snake  of  that 
kind, ' '  he  muttered,  as  he  came  back,  casting 
a  rueful   glance   at  his  friend — "and   from   a 

d d    carrotty    weather-glass     sapper!"    he 

added,  cursing  with  a  sharp  return  to  garrison 
vernacular,  expressive  of  corps  prejudice. 

Then  after  a  while:  "Is  it  not  like  a  warn- 
ing? A  sobering  descent  from  the  heights,  old 
friend !  I  did  forget  to  visit  that  last  sentry, 
you  know.  I  really  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
bewitched.     But  never  again ! " 

198 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

It  was  near  sundown;  in  due  course  Dal- 
rymple  marched  off  his  party,  in  great  gloom. 
Marshfield,  on  his  side,  slowly  returned,  deeply 
pensive  and  discovering,  at  odd  corners  of  his 
meditation,  sundry  instances  comparable  to 
his  friend's  psychological  struggle  in  other 
phenomena: — the  stamp  of  previous  impres- 
sions on  the  brain  of  younger  life,  reappearing 
in  unforeseen  wise,  even  as  the  die  once 
applied  on  soft  clay,  smooth  it  and  obliterate  it 
as  you  will  on  the  potter's  wheel,  will  reassert 
itself  in  the  baking.  Or  again  the  inevitable 
ecstatic  neurosis  of  the  contemplative  anchoret, 
living  in  the  midst  of  yearning  for  irrealisable 
images — while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  simple 
abnegation,  the  devotion  to  the  work-a-day 
task,  in  the  Sister  of  Charity  (mental  material 
of  the  same  stuff),  lead  to  the  wondrous 
serenity  of  spirit  which  is  the  glory  of  such  a  life. 

How  long  would  Dalrymple's  peace,  his 
satisfaction  with  self  and  with  the  ambient 
world,  be  disturbed  by  this  visionary  excur- 
sion, Tannhaiiser-like,  to  a  Venusberg  of  mod- 
ern conception?  It  would  be  curious  to  see — 
and  Marshfield,  with  his  characteristic  calm 
selfishness,  resolved  to  throw  no  hint  of  any 
likelihood  of  his  departure  for  some  days  to 
come. 

That  evening,  however,  beyond  a  certain 
consciousness  and  forced  joviality,  there  was 

199 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

little  to  observe  about  his  friend's  manner  in 
mess  or  ante-room.  There  was,  on  the  other 
hand,  a  certain  tendency  to  taciturnity  when 
they  found  themselves  once  more  alone  in  their 
quarters  and  no  further  anatomising  of  Dal- 
rymple's  thoughts  could  be  achieved.  All 
that  was  apparent  was  a  shade  of  feverish  ness 
in  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips ;  and  all  that  could 
be  noted  of  any  import  was  the  valediction, 
about  midnight: 

"I  shall  leave  you  to  your  slumbers.  As  for 
me,  you  know,"  with  an  attempt  at  self- 
banter,  "I  should  have  abandoned  you  much 
sooner  if  another  meeting  such  as  that  you 
heard  of  to-day  could  ever  occur  again.  But 
dreams  are  not  bespoken — worse  luck!" 

On  this  confession  of  weakness  Marshfield 
saw  the  red  and  gold  jacket  disappear.  But 
for  many  hours,  until  he  himself  dropped 
asleep,  he  could  hear  his  neighbour  moving 
about  restlessly  in  the  next  room. 

The  morning  brought  its  budget.  It  was 
Dalrymple  who  called  up  the  Observer.  The 
young  soldier's  face  was  tired,  and  there  were 
blue  lines  under  his  eyes,  but  a  hardly  subdued 
joyousness  lighted  his  countenance.  That  was 
ominous. 

"I  have  to  take  a  musketry  party  to  Graves- 
end — have  you  a  mind  to  march  twenty  miles 

200 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

with  us?  Yes?  Right!  We  shall  not  be  back 
till  night." 

And  thus,  on  the  second  day,  Marshfield 
found  himself  tramping  the  weary  road  across 
a  snow-covered  country,  on  the  flank  of  a 
strong  company. 

Something  fresh  had  evidently  happened  to 
his  friend.  Dalrymple  seemed  to  tread  upon 
air;  joyousness  radiated  from  his  whole  being. 
True,  he  was  absent  minded  at  times,  but  now 
it  was  with  no  moodiness.  Once  the  freedom 
of  the  "march  at  ease"  had  been  reached,  as 
the  men  began  to  light  their  pipes  and  to  swing 
along  merrily  to  the  trolling  of  an  occasional 
song,  his  laugh  and  jest  and  gait  were  of  the 
merriest.  But  never  a  word  would  he  vouch- 
safe in  answer  to  the  insinuating  inquiries  of 
the  Observer. 

It  was  only  on  the  return  march,  when  ani- 
mal spirits  had  much  evaporated,  and  when 
the  occasional  fits  of  abstraction  became  more 
frequent,  that  Marshfield,  having  reached  the 
end  of  his  tether  of  patience,  fired  his  point- 
blank  question : 

"To  judge  by  your  mood,"  he  said,  "you 
have  not  renewed  your  Endymion-like  experi- 
ence last  night ' ' 

Dalrymple  looked  up  quickly. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  but  further 
remained  mute. 

20I 


MARSHFIELD   THE   OBSERVER 

"So  ho!"  said  Marshfield.  "And  what  liv- 
ing shape  did  the  Symbol  of  the  World's 
Beauty  assume  this  time?" 

Dalrymple  seemed  to  hesitate  for  want  of 
words. 

"It  was  the  same- — the  same,  Marshfield, "  he 
whispered  at  length,  with  an  odd  thrill  in  his 
voice.  "And  yet,  there  was  a  difference.  The 
first  time  she  came,  what  shall  I  say?  ...  it 
was  like  the  almond  blossom.  Last  night  .  .  . 
can  you  understand?  it  was  the  pomegranate 
— the  cactus  in  flower!" 

"I  think  I  do.     Campaspe  made  you  King?" 

After  a  moment's  reflection  Dalrymple 
looked  round  and  nodded. 

"And  yet  you  seem  pretty  well  reconciled 
to  this  damp  and  muddy  world,"  remarked 
Marshfield,  with  some  resentment,  dragging 
his  weary  feet  along  by  the  side  of  his  brisk- 
stepping  companion. 

Gaily  answered  Dalrymple,  his  eyes  bright 
with  joyous  fire: 

"Were  this  world 'ten  times  more  dismal,  I 
have  the  key  of  another,  of  the  real  one!" 

"Well?"  insisted  Marshfield. 

The  Officer  turned  his  head  abruptly  away, 
and,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  swung  on  in  fine 
rhythm  to  some  unheard  march  of  joy.  Bars 
of  pallid  winter  sunshine  were  breaking  the 
western   clouds   and   gilding   the   wreaths    of 

202 


ENDYMION   IN    BARRACKS 

vapour  that  hung  over  the  distant  town,  their 
goal.  Every  man's  face  in  the  Company, 
tramping  towards  this  faint  sunset,  caught  up 
some  of  its  yellow  gleam.  But  Marshfield  saw, 
as  once  before  in  the  convict  guard-room,  that 
Dalrymple's  countenance,  palely  luminous,  like 
an  alabaster  lamp,  was  lit  as  from  within. 

"  '  The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land,'  " 
he  quoted  to  himself.  Then,  under  an  increas- 
ing sense  of  irritation,  he  spoke  again,  with 
something  of 'a  sneer: 

"Well,  and  what  happened?" 

Dalrymple  halted  a  second  and  threw  the 
secret  flame  of  his  eyes  upon  his  friend.  He 
seemed,  from  a  great  height,  to  look  down  with 
wonder  upon  a  world  grown  strange  to  him.  For 
the  third  time  Marshfield  reiterated  his  query : 

"What  then,  Endymion?" 

"Ah,"  cried  Dalrymple,  and  the  inner  glow 
seemed  to  flash  out  in  an  extraordinary  smile — 
"what  then!  Can  Endymion  tell,  do  you 
think?" 

His  voice  broke  upon  this  note  of  exultation, 
and,  the  next  moment,  he  had  caught  up  the 
tramp  of  his  men,  leaving  the  tired  and  dis- 
comfited Observer  to  hobble  in  rear,  as  slowly 
as  he  list,  towards  the  dying  sunset. 

That  evening,  at  mess,  Dalrymple,  whose 
suppressed  exultation  contrasted  oddly  with  his 

203 


MARSHFIELD    THE    OBSERVER 

tired  face,  elicited  some  sensation  and  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  indulgent  disapproval  among 
his  peers  by  occasional  lapses  into  unintel- 
ligible phraseology,  alternating  with  fits  of 
dreaminess.  And,  after  dinner,  as  if  yielding 
to  an  irresistible  attraction,  he  was  observed  to 
draw  nearer  and  nearer  the  piano.  Then, 
softly,  his  eyes  lifted  as  if  trying  to  recall  some 
fleeting  memory,  he  began  to  pick  out  a 
strange,  weird  chant,  broken  now  and  then 
with  startling  harmonies.  It  was  halting  and 
unfinished,  like  some  incomprehensible  thought 
that  has  no  logical  conclusion — like  the  song  of 
the  thrush,  a  fragment  of  audible  beauty,  end- 
ing, incomplete,  in  sudden  vacancy. 

To  Marshfield  the  unchastened  melody  was 
admirably  alluring,  for  he  fully  guessed  its 
origin.  But  the  red-jacketed  youths  rebelled 
loudly  at  "the  infernal  miawing.  Dalrymple! 
— What  the  dickens  was  the  matter  with  the 
fellow  to-night?  Let  them  have  Chin-Chin 
CJiinaman,  something  with  a  tune  in  it,  or 
something  a  fellow  could  make  head  and  tail 
of,  anyhow!" 

Whereupon  Dalrymple,  the  sweet-tempered, 
got  up  in  a  sudden  inexplicable  heat  of  anger 
and  left  the  room.  Marshfield  promptly  fol- 
lowed ;  and  as  his  friend  showed  a  disposition 
to  part  at  the  bedroom  door  without  further 
parley,  arrested  him  with  the  blunt  remark : 

204 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

"That  was  the  voice  of  your  Vision,  of 
course?  I  wish  I  could  have  it  noted,  if  it  is 
still  with  you." 

Dalrymple  shook  his  head  vehemently. 

"It  cannot  be  noted!  What  I  tried  to  put 
into  sound  was  no  nearer  the  truth  than  the 
sketch  of  a  man  who  cannot  draw  would  be  to 
the  grace  of  his  Love's  face.  It  is  not  to  be 
noted  in  waking  music.  Besides,"  he  added 
vaguely,  "waking  music  has  no  sense." 

Marshfield,  if  truth  be  said,  began  to  feel  a 
commencement  of  alarm  for  his  friend's  brain. 
In  his  mind  flitted  for  a  moment  a  reminis- 
cence of  Slav  traditions  concerning  the  Vam- 
pire. He  forthwith  resolved  that  one  of  his 
future  investigations  should  be  whether  the 
fons  et  origo  of  the  legends  might  not  be  traced 
to  similar  neurotic  break-down,  more  frequent 
among  a  dreamy,  musical,  over-imaginative 
and  especially  melancholy  people,  than  among 
occidental  races. 


The  next  morning  he  found  Dalrymple  in  a 
deplorable  frame  of  mind.  Sleep,  the  young 
man  said,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rage,  had 
forsaken  him.  An  absolutely  wakeful  night  is 
distressing  enough  at  all  times,  but  a  sleepless- 
ness that  means  the  loss  of  a  treasure  greater 
than  all  the  world  can  give  is  Hell.     So  Dal- 

205 


MARSHFIELD   THE    OBSERVER 

rymple  said,  with  a  look  more  expressive  even 
than  the  word  itself. 

Even  if  Marshfield's  all-dominating  curiosity 
had  not  urged  him  to  remain  by  his  friend's 
side,  mere  humanity  would  have  made  him  do 
so. 


On  the  third  day  the  dreamer  was  in  a 
parlous  state.  Not  a  minute,  not  a  second,  of 
the  expectant  hours  had  blessed  unconscious- 
ness descended  upon  him.  The  magnificent 
look  of  vigour  which,  on  the  first  occasion  of 
their  meeting,  had  been  so  striking  an  element 
of  his  whole  presence,  was  already  a  thing 
which  memory  could  hardly  realise. 

The  Major  in  command,  who  held  the  lad  in 
special  affection  (they  had  spent  a  hard  time 
together  among  the  Afridis),  insisted  on  his 
going  on  leave,  to  recruit. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Marshfield  took 
charge  of  the  patient  (who  now  eagerly  clung 
to  the  one  companion  capable  of  realising  his 
condition),  and  that  he  was  able  to  watch  the 
progress  of  this  rare  mental  disease.  His  notes 
are  full  of  interest,  and  would  furnish  matter 
(indeed,  they  may  some  day)  for  a  weirdly  fan- 
tastic tale. 

There  supervened  in  Dalrymple  a  condition 
of  life  which  Marshfield  describes  as  an  intel- 

206 


ENDYMION   IN   BARRACKS 

lectual  phthisis,  a  consumption  of  the  soul.  It 
was  a  crepuscule  of  the  mind,  which,  as  the 
crepuscule  of  day,  leads  to  nothing  but  dark- 
ness. 

He  had  lost  all  interest  in  real  life.  The 
fate  he  had  dreaded  in  older  days  had  overtaken 
him  to  the  full. 

"Our  common  world,"  he  would  assert,  "is 
nothing  but  greyness,  my  friend.  There  is 
not  a  taste  in  your  Universe,  not  an  impres- 
sion which  is  more  than  a  muffled  parody  of 
what  I  have  known." 

"The  world  is  not  meant  solely  for  trans- 
cendent delight,"  Marshfield  would  object, 
with  an  exact  sense  that  unanswerable  plati- 
tudes are  the  best  foils  to  dithyrambics. 
"There  are  other  intellectual  goals  to  be 
reached,  during  this  incarnation." 

The  vision  never  returned.  Sleep,  indeed, 
was  ultimately  restored  to  him  in  a  measure; 
and  that  doubtless  saved  him  from  madness. 
But  his  fits  of  despair  after  the  nights  that  he 
had  "slept  in  vain,"  as  he  expressed  it,  were 
at  first  more  passionate  even  than  after  the 
nights  of  waking  agonised  invocations. 

Melancholy  had  now  finally  marked  Dal- 
rymple  for  her  own.  But  the  manliness,  innate 
and  cultivated  in  the  youth,  saved  him  from 
degradation.  There  could  be  no  joy,  but  there 
was  at  least  some  rest  in  the  fulfilment  of 

207 


MARSHFIELD  THE   OBSERVER 

Duty — with  this  he  never  allowed  anything  to 
interfere. 

A  curious  characteristic,  one  which  displayed 
the  soundness  of  the  youth's  mental  strength 
at  core  for  all  its  accidental  fever,  was  that 
melancholia  with  him  never  turned  to  sourness 
or  irritability.  He  never  seemed  to  lose  his 
winning  sweetness  of  temper  among  his 
brother  officers,  or  his  solicitude  for  the  wel- 
fare and  pleasures  of  his  men.  Gradually  he 
resumed  the  healthy  tenor  of  a  soldier's  life, 
and  in  all  appearance  save  in  gaiety  became 
something  like  his  old  self  again.  His  work, 
however,  was  performed  with  what  might  be 
compared  to  the  dry  perfection  of  an  automa- 
ton, and  both  comrades  and  men  long  missed 
the  joyous  alertness  that  had  endeared  him  to 
all. 

But,  one  day,  the  summons  came  to  prepare 
for  active  service  once  more.  Then,  as  the 
weary  soldier,  after  a  restless  sleep  in  which  he 
has  dimly  striven  again  and  again  to  fulfil  his 
mechanical  round  of  work,  awakes  at  the  clear 
voice  of  the  bugle-call  and  hails  with  joy  the 
dawn  of  the  battle-day,  so  did  Edward  Dal- 
rymple,  the  dreamer,  awake. 

He  seemed  to  take  up  his  life  again  with 
enthusiasm :  and  never,  as  those  said  who  saw 
him  again  on  that  last  day,  did  any  one  lay  it 
down  with  a  higher  heart.      They  found  his 

208 


ENDYMION    IN    BARRACKS 

body  on  the  lip  of  the  enemy's  trenches;  and 
it  was  said  that  the  beauty  on  his  dead  face 
was  such,  the  smile  upon  his  lips  so  exquisite 
in  its  joy,  that  the  very  soldiers  of  the  burying 
party,  all  hardened  to  their  materialising  task, 
begged  to  look  and  look  again  before  wrapping 
him  away  in  that  insatiable  earth  that  had 
already  drunk  in  so  much  gallant  blood. 

Marshfield  often  wondered  whether  at  that 
supreme  moment  his  friend  had  indeed  been 
vouchsafed  once  again  the  glory  of  his  Vision : 
or  whether  the  smile  had  been  called  upon  his 
stiffening  lips  by  the  knowledge  that,  through 
Duty,  he  had  at  last  and  for  ever  grasped — 
Peace. 


209 


I 


i 


I 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 


TO 

MRS.  CHARLES  BLUNDELL  OF  CROSBY 

LOUISE  DE  VZOVICS,    WHOSE  CHILD-FEET  WERE 

FORCED    TO    TREAD    THE    MEASURES 

OF    THE    DEATH-DANCE. 


The   Death-Dance 

As  age  advances  upon  me,  past  memories 
grow  sweet  to  linger  over.  Strange  it  is  how 
easily  the  painful  and  the  terrible  in  our  experi- 
ences are  forgotten  in  a  busy  life — forgotten 
or  but  recalled  with  a  placid  savour  of  interest. 
A  merciful  dispensation  no  doubt,  as  the  cant 
phrase  runs.  Yet,  now  and  again,  even  to  the 
old  man  may  not  a  chance  concurrence  of 
impressions  bring  back  long-past  and  seeming 
dead  emotions,  and  that  with  well-nigh  the 
poignancy  of  the  actual  event? 

This  evening  as  we  returned  to  our  home, 
my  wife  and  I,  after  a  mighty  pleasant  walk 
through  the  woods,  where  overhead  the 
rising  breeze  whispered  loud  as  it  hurried 
through  the  branches,  where  underfoot  the 
ground  was  soft  and  silent  save  now  and  then 
for  some  breaking  twig,  we  passed  from  the 
dim  grey  twilight  into  the  deserted  library 
wrapped  in  darkness;  shutters  already  closed 
and  lamps  as  yet  unkindled.  There  being  that 
day  some  festivity  at  our  little  village  to  which 
the  servants  had  permission  to  go,  the  neglect 
was  to  be  viewed  with  leniency;  and,  laugh- 
ing, we  groped  for  lights.  My  hand  was  the 
first  to  meet  the  box  wherein  lay  enshrined  one 

215 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

solitary  match.      I  struck  it;    it  flashed  bril- 
liantly, and  went  out. 

Now,  in  that  brief 'illumination,  arose  before 
my  unexpecting  eyes  a  picture  from  the  past, 
lurid,  terrible,  living ;  and  the  darkness  which 
ensued  was  filled  with  crowded  memories  of  a 
scene  enacted  long  ago  in  my  sallet  days  and 
far  away  from  this  peaceful  English  land.  Yet 
what  really  met  my  sight  was  only  my  dear 
wife's  face  as  it  started,  eager  and  half  smil- 
ing, from  the  impenetrable  gloom  and  then 
sank  into  nothingness. 

She  is  no  longer  young,  in  years — facts  are 
facts ;  the  once  glorious  sheen  of  her  black  hair 
has  changed  to  the  tints  of  frosted  silver ;  and 
though  her  eyes  are  brilliant  with  the  light  of 
an  ever-youthful  soul,  though  she  is  still  to  me 
the  bride  of  my  manhood's  love,  to  all  the 
world  we  are  most  undeniably  an  elderly 
couple.  But  the  face  I  seemed  to  see,  which 
indeed  I  saw  in  a  strange  phantasmagoria  born 
of  lightning  recollection,  was  young  with  the 
peach-bloom  of  youth;  and  the  frame  of  the 
picture  was  not  the  silent,  warm  library  with 
its  carpet  and  curtains  and  tall  array  of  books, 
but  the  boles  of  two  rugged  poplar-trees  in  the 
thickest  midst  of  a  well-remembered  wood — 
Ap^li-er-doseg. 

I  knew  it  at  once,  that  disastrous  forest  of 

216 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

elms  and  ivy-grown  poplars  between  the  Waag 
and  the  Danube,  scene  of  so  much  indecisive 
fighting,  so  much  useless  butchery.  And  the 
gleam  that  reveals  this  fearsome,  lovely  face 
peering  at  me  eagerly  from  out  the  darkness, 
is  a  long  flash-in-the-pan  of  one  of  those  obso- 
lete muskets  used  by  the  Hungarian  guerrillas 
in  the  year  '49,  And  I,  scarce  a  year  free 
from  school  thraldom,  am  riding,  clad  in  the 
cream-white  of  the  Royal  Imperial  Chevau- 
legers,  at  the  head  of  a  reconnoitring  party 
pushing  towards  Comorn;  I  am,  in  fact,  an 
inexperienced  cornet  filled,  half  with  pride  in 
his  responsibilities,  half  with  trepidation,  lest 
by  some  mischance  I  should  fail  in  accomplish- 
ing all  that  is  expected  of  an  Austrian  officer 
and  an  Englishman  to  boot. 

A  long  way  to  look  back — nearly  half  a  cen- 
tury, forsooth!  Yet,  behold!  I  am  as  livingly 
in  the  woods  of  Ap^li  as  on  the  day  when  I 
killed  my  first  man  on  Imperial  duty.  Over- 
head the  evening  breeze  sways  the  tall  poplars ; 
underfoot  the  soft  earth  receives  the  trample 
of  our  chargers  noiselessly  save  for  the  break- 
ing of  some  dried  twigs.  No  light  but  that  of 
a  young  moon,  pale  and  barely  sufficient 
through  the  arches  of  foliage  to  guide  us  along 
the  rude  forest  road. 

All  at  once  the  rhythm  of  the  march,  with  its 
faint  accompaniment  of  clicking  arms  and  har- 

217 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

ness,  is  drowned  in  a  hellish  clangour.  Ahead, 
on  either  side,  spring,  singly  and  in  groups,  the 
long  red  flashes  of  musket-fire;  the  hissing 
lead  crashes  through  our  files,  and  above  us 
snaps  in  the  branches. 

There  is  one  short  moment  of  suspense,  an 
interval  of  stillness  broken  only  by  the  angry 
guttural  orders  of  my  sergeant  to  the  troopers, 
the  plunging  and  neighing  of  some  wounded 
horses,  and,  rapidly  approaching,  the  thudding 
gallop  of  our  detached  files  falling  back  on 
their  supports.  Then  a  shrill  whistle  sounds, 
upon  which  rises  all  around  us  the  blood-curd- 
ling Hungarian  yell,  while,  as  if  vomited  by 
the  black  earth,  leap  up  into  our  midst  a 
swarm  of  fighting  demons.  Almost  before  a 
single  pistol-shot  can  leave  our  ranks  the 
brown  rusty  scythes  are  already  at  work  among 
our  horses'  feet,  and  the  noble  beasts  go  down 
shrieking,  mutilated;  almost  before  one  loyal 
blade  can  leave  the  scabbard,  half  my  trim  and 
smart  dragoons— choice  troops  trained  with 
precise  care  in  the  art  of  arms— have  rolled  into 
the  mud,  cursing  and  groaning,  and  hideously 
ripped,  under  the  thrust  of  an  uncouth  pike  or 
the  throw  of  a  peasant's  sickle. 

With  a  wail,  the  hurried  blast  from  the 
trumpeter  at  my  side  expires  almost  from  the 
first  note  as,  half  turned  in  the  saddle  to  wind 
his  warning  call  to  the  main  body,  he  is  hurled 

218 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

from  his  seat,  his  back  cloven  by  a  woodman's 
axe.  The  same  savage  weapon  is  next  raised 
upon  me,  and  would  send  me  even  then  to  my 
last  account  but  for  a  frantic  kick  from  my 
poor  trumpeter's  horse,  which,  with  unusual 
poetic  justice,  brains  his  master's  destroyer  on 
the  spot.  All  this  within  the  span  of  two  seconds. 

I  am  seized  with  despair.  A  vision  of  dis- 
grace— the  wholesale  destruction  of  the  party 
entrusted  to  me — rises  like  fire  before  my  mind. 
And  I  have  not  even  struck  a  blow  for  the 
honour  of  the  white  Atilla.  A  frenzy  to  flesh 
once  at  least  my  virgin  sword  before  meeting 
inevitable  death  fills  my  whole  being  at  one 
shiver.  At  that  moment  my  own  brave 
charger  falls  under  me,  hamstrung  and  with 
gaping  throat;  I  am  up  again  in  an  instant, 
free  of  him,  and  blindly  throw  myself  upon  a 
dark  group  just  visible  a  few  yards  in  front. 

And  here,  at  last,  is  something  to  pierce  and 
to  hack;  to  assuage  with  deep  red  draughts, 
black-dropping  in  the  moonlight,  the  white 
fury  of  my  sabre's  thirst.  And  here,  as  reel- 
ing round  intoxicated  with  the  first  taste  of 
destruction,  I  seek  a  fresh  object  to  work 
upon,  rises  the  flash  of  a  well-primed  pan,  red 
in  the  gloom  of  the  close  growing  trees ;  and 
on  the  instant  a  flight  of  shot  strike  like  so 
many  cuts  of  a  whip  deep  into  my  flesh. 

Not  because  I  am  badly  hit — and  this  I  know 

219 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

though  my  blood  is  too  hot  to  feel  much  pain 
just  then — do  I  stop,  transfixed  in  my  head- 
long rush,  but  because  of  the  image  which 
flames  into  being  and  is  lost  with  the  musket 
flash.  It  is  a  face  of  weird  loveliness,  oval, 
very  white,  framed  darkly  by  the  hair  that 
escapes  from  under  a  broad  cavalier  hat;  a 
young,  girlish  face,  with  dilated  burning  eyes 
and  a  small,  full-lipped  mouth  slightly  opened, 
seeming  to  breathe  vengeance  even  as  the  eyes 
dart  the  most  exultant  triumph. 

The  vision  in  the  midst  of  carnage — for  the 
rebels  are  despatching  my  wounded  men,  and 
I  hear  on  every  side,  with  burning  heart  of 
shame,  German  cries  for  mercy,  intermingled 
with  the  savage  ""Elf en  Kossuth!''  and  the 
deep-mouthed  imprecation  of  fight — seems  to 
my  darkening  senses  as  some  strange  revela- 
tion of  the  Valkyrie,  that  wondrous  creature  of 
Teutonic  imagination,  who  comes  to  ease  the 
dying  soldier's  agony  with  promises  of  a 
glorious  Walhalla. 

A  moment  later  a  sudden  sickness  comes 
upon  me,  and  it  is  as  if  the  earth  rises  up  to 
buffet  me;  I  am  certain  my  last  hour  has 
come.  But,  as  I  fain  would  compose  my  mind 
to  a  suitable  state  of  compunction,  the  beauti- 
ful heathen  phantasm  ever  dances  uppermost 
in  the  midst  of  the  cloud  that  is  rolling  swiftly 
over  all  my  being 

220 


I 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

"Well,  dear,"  said  my  wife's  tranquil  voice, 
from  the  depth  of  darkness,  "what  are  you 
dreaming  about,  standing  there,  so  still?" 

As  ahe  spoke,  the  door  was  pushed  open,  a 
tardy  servant  appeared  with  lights,  and  the 
spell  was  broken.  I  was  once  more  in  the 
antique,  restful  library  of  By  cross  Hall.  Once 
more  I  was  an  old  man,  hale  and  happy  for  all 
his  narrow  escapes  and  all  the  barbarous  scenes 
witnessed  and  enacted  in  younger  days. 

"I  thought,"  said  I,  "that  I  saw  the  astral 
body  of  Sarolta!" 

And  so  we  fell  into  memories  of  the  Hun- 
garian War — it  is  now,  and  properly,  so  digni- 
fied, though  in  my  young  time  of  Imperial 
service  it  was  only  called  a  rising,  and  the 
Magyars  were  not  "the  enemy"  but  "the 
rebels" — and  we  harked  back  to  that  reign  of 
terror,  through  which  she  then — a  mere  child 
— passed  unscathed,  although  it  well-nigh 
encompassed  destruction,  root  and  branch,  to 
her  family. 

And,  by  a  singular  coincidence,  the  evening's 
post  brought  news  that  night  of  Klapka's 
death  at  Vienna;  Klapka,  the  sturdy  defender 
of  Comorn,  whom  Austria's  Grand  Execu- 
tioner, Haynau,  would  so  dearly  have  loved  to 
hang,  yet  who,  long  since  reconciled  and  hon- 
oured, lived  out  his  peaceful  old  age  under  the 
very  yoke  he  once  had  laboured  to  destroy, 

221 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

even  as  might  Kossuth  himself,  did  he  not  still 
prefer  a  sullen  self-imposed  exile.  * 

Now,  perhaps,  might  be  a  fitting  time  to 
write  impartially  of  that  extraordinary  war 
which,  for  all  her  soldiers'  gallantry,  brought 
so  little  credit  to  Austria's  rule,  and  which 
gave  Hungary,  to  compensate  so  much 
slaughter  and  misery,  nothing  that  persistent 
peaceful  agitation  might  not  have  secured  in 
later  days.  A  merciless,  profitless  struggle, 
degrading  alike  to  Austria's  commanders, 
who,  until  they  received  foreign  help,  failed  to 
achieve  victory  over  Magyar  fierceness ;  and  to 
Hungarian  leaders,  who,  on  the  day  of  final 
defeat,  betrayed  each  other  and  cravenly  aban- 
doned their  country  in  her  last  agonies. 

English  favour  has,  on  the  whole,  weighed 
on  the  Hungarian  side;  on  no  very  precise 
ground  perhaps,  for  the  true  case  of  Royal 
Hungary  against  the  Empire  has  hardly  been 
made  quite  clear.  I  cannot  pretend  to  dis- 
criminate, for  I  saw  the  events  as  a  soldier; 
and  a  soldier  must  needs  be  one-sided.  All 
that  I  am  able  to  say,  whilst  the  impression  of 
my  memories  is  still  green  on  me,  is  that  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  early  misdealings  of 
the  Emperor  with  a  noble  race  (now,  it  must 
be  owned,  the  strongest  prop  of  a  patched 
Empire),  the  actual  bearing  of  the  Austrian 

*Thi3  was  written  in  1893. 

222 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

army  was  never  as  uniformly  ferocious,  nor 
was  that  of  the  Magyars  themselves  invariably 
as  noble  and  moderate  as  it  has  long  been  the 
fashion  to  represent  it  in  England. 

The  series  of  incidents  which  the  small  flame 
of  a  match  thus  brought  so  vividly  back  to  my 
mind  that  I  am  fain  to  relate  them,  are 
sufficiently  typical  of  the  state  the  land  was 
plunged  in,  towards  the  end  of  the  long  con- 
flict, to  prove  maybe  of  interest  to  those  who 
judge  that  bloody  period  from  the  sentimental 
point  of  view  of  preconceived  sympathy. 

What  a  toy  in  the  hands  of  blind  fortune  is  a 
soldier's  life!  Platitude,  say  you?  So  it  is. 
But  there  are  times  when  truisms  assume  a 
very  singular  particularity.  And,  when  I 
recall  that  time,  and  realise  on  what  mere  acci- 
dents then  depended  the  thread  of  an  existence 
which  has  been  very  well  worth  living  to  me, 
the  old  worn  saying  loses  all  its  triteness. 

The  riddling  of  my  young  body  with 
blunderbuss  shots  might,  under  other  circum- 
stances, have  been  held  as  a  sufficiently 
disastrous  casualty  for  the  very  first  engage- 
ment into  which  I  carried  it.  As  the  night 
went,  however,  it  saved  my  head  from  the 
bloody  harvest  of  the  scythe-men.  As  I  fell 
two  black  shadows  bore  down  upon  me ;  one 
raised  a  scythe  over  my  neck.     I  saw  it  gleam 

223 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

under  a  moon  ray  without  even  the  power  of 
turning  my  fixed  eyeballs  from  the  sight; 
before  it  had  time  to  descend,  however,  there 
came  a  cry  from  a  curiously  high-pitched  voice, 
and  again  the  vision  of  the  Valkyrie's  face, 
this  time  laughing  pallidly  in  the  silver  light, 
swam  before  me.  The  beautiful  lips  let  fall 
some  words,  no  doubt  in  the  language  of  the 
gods.  There  was  a  hoarse  laugh.  A  bayonet 
tore  its  way  between  my  shoulder  blade  and 
the  flesh,  driven  as  it  were  in  mere  jocularity, 
and  the  silhouettes  passed  on. 

In  the  anguish  of  the  new  wound  I  tried 
again  to  concentrate  my  mind  to  prayer,  but 
again  the  beauteous  obsession  overmastered 
all. 

Presently  it  became  obvious  that  I  was  not 
progressing  with  my  dying.  My  wounds 
beofan  to  burn  in  ever  more  lifelike  fashion, 
and  my  brain  grew  clearer.  All  around  was 
very  still  save  for  a  groan  now  and  then,  or 
the  struggle  of  some  dying  charger. 

Through  softly  waving  branches  the  breeze 
flustered,  and  the  moonlight  fell  between  the 
leaves,  very  cold  and  fair.  With  an  infinite 
effort  I  rolled  over  on  my  back  and  there  lay, 
consorting  with  dim  incongruous  phantoms, 
still  waiting  for  the  moment  of  my  passing. 
So  ended  my  first  combat  under  "the  black- 
and-yellow. ' '     For  this  I  had  been  initiated  an 

224 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

ardent  recruit,  to  the  pride  of  Austrian  Serv- 
ice ;  for  this  had  we  hastened  from  the  Italian 
garrison,  light-hearted  and  glorious  through 
the  bright  summer  days ! 

Several  engagements,  as  I  learned  since, 
took  place  that  night  between  our  advanced 
patrols  and  the  Hungarian  outposts  in  the 
nefarious  neighbourhood  of  Comorn,  each  with 
more  or  less  similar  result.  In  all  their  pre- 
liminary movements  for  the  concerted  Austro- 
Russian  attack  upon  that  stronghold  on  the 
unsuccessful  second  of  July,  our  renowned 
generals  and  their  seasoned  troops  were 
baulked  by  the  indomitable  determination  of 
the  Hungarian  levies  and  the  admirable  tactics 
of  Gorgey.  In  fact,  the  blame  and  disgrace  I 
so  bitterly  dreaded  in  connection  with  the 
inglorious  butchery  in  the  Apali  woods 
attached  not  to  me,  but  to  the  old-fashioned 
pedantry  and  the  routine  spirit  of  our  generals, 
who  confidently  sent  the  regulation  horse- 
patrol  to  reconnoitre  in  a  situation  where  only 
light  infantry  should  have  ventured, 

A  badly  wounded  man  has  no  appreciation 
of  time.  To  him  a  given  span  may  seem  ah 
eternity  of  torture  or  the  flash  of  a  single 
thought,  according  to  the  state  of  his  brain. 
After  a  lapse — I  cannot  tell  how  long — a  line 
of  men  advanced  steadily  but  with  caution 
through  the  underwood.     I  believe  they  were 

225 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

our  own  dragoons,  but  dismounted  this  time. 
One  of  these  trod  on  my  hand  as  he  passed 
along,  and  I  must  have  given  a  cry  of  pain  or 
anger;  at  any  rate  he  bent  down  and  exam- 
ined me,  and  in  German  called  out  to  his  com- 
rades. And  presently,  a  helpless  mass  of 
suffering  humanity,  I  was  carried  away  in  a 
great-coat. 

The  next  stage  that  comes  up  to  memory 
was  my  being  laid,  at  dawn,  together  with  a 
few  other  white -coated  and  blood-stained 
wretches,  in  a  commissariat  cart,  the  merciless 
jolts  of  which  brought  back  a  miserable  con- 
sciousness. 

Then  there  was  an  interlude  to  the  monot- 
onous torture  of  progression — another  skirmish 
in  which  a  sudden  onslaught  of  hussars,  fear- 
less as  hawks,  swift  and  howling  as  tempest 
wind,  swooping  down  as  it  seemed  from  the 
clouds,  nearly  succeeded  in  cutting  off  the 
lumbering  convoy.  But  they  were  beaten  off. 
And  more  mangled  yet  living  bodies  were  laid 
in  the  cart,  among  whom  not  a  few  of  the 
hussar  blue-coats  themselves  who,  but  a  few 
moments  before,  amidst  the  flashes  of  their 
sabre  cuts,  had  yelled  their  "" Eljen  Kossuth!'' 
with  such  irresistible  energy.  And  the  dreary 
procession  trundled  on  again. 

The  sun  was  high  and  burning  when 
occurred   the   next    break   in   the   nightmare. 

226 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

We  were  lifted  from  the  cart,  laid  on  a  wide 
stretch  of  gravel,  and  then  and  there  laved 
with  blessedly  cool  water;  a  draught  of  some 
acid  nectar  was  next  held  to  my  lips,  whilst  a 
woman's  face,  beautiful,  tender,  motherly, 
bent  over  us. 

It  was  as  if  the  blessed  Mother  of  God  had 
driven  forth  my  Valkyrie,  yet  to  my  fever- 
ridden  mind  there  was  still  some  fleeting  like- 
ness between  the  two. 

High  in  front,  and  on  both  sides,  rose  what 
seemed  in  my  wandering  fancy  endless  vistas 
of  flaming  palaces;  for  in  the  sunlight  the 
white  stone  and  glass  of  the  stately  building 
glittered  with  insufferable  brightness. 

The  convoy  had,  it  seems,  been  handed  over 
to  a  Russian  column  on  the  way;  the  trim 
white  coats  were  no  longer  about  us,  but,  in 
their  stead,  unkempt  troopers  in  brown  caftans 
and  tall  brass-spiked  helmets.  And  these, 
according  to  custom,  had  hastened  to  deposit 
their  profitless  burden  at^the  first  available 
abode. 

And  thus  it  came  to  pass  that,  for  the 
remainder  of  the  war,  I  found  myself,  to  my 
own  immediate  benefit  and  future  happiness, 
an  inmate  of  a  noble  Magyar  household. 

After  the  inevitable  days  of  fever  and 
delirium,  which  in  an  Austrian  ambulance 
would  undoubtedly  have  landed  me  in  six  feet 

227 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

of  earth  without  the  last  snug  decency  of  a 
coffin,  but  which  the  vigilant  and  humane 
nursing  of  the  Lady  of  the  House — to  use  an 
obsolete  but  graceful  phrase — brought  me 
safely  through,  I,  weak  as  a  ^new-born  puppy, 
began  to  take  notice  of  my  surroundings,  and 
find  in  life,  again,  something  beyond  discom- 
fort and  pain. 

The  Castle  of  Komjath,  an  imposing,  com- 
paratively modern  building,  in  the  French 
style  which  finds  favour  in  Hungary,  stands 
conspicuously  on  an  island  formed  by  two 
unequal  arms  of  the  Neutra;  this  latter  is  a 
stream  which  a  few  miles  lower  down  in  its 
course  joins  the  Waag,  just  before  the  latter 
meets  the  Danube  below  Comorn.  A  hand- 
some stone  bridge  connects  the  island  with 
either  bank  and  allows  a  high  road  to  cross  the 
estate  from  east  to  west.  As  but  few  such 
structures  span  the  lower  course  of  the  Neutra, 
it  was  the  fate  of  Komjath  to  find  itself  con- 
stantly on  the  way  of  marching  troops  during 
the  whole  of  the  war.  In  the  early  spring, 
whilst  the  Hungarian  star  was  still  in  the 
ascendant,  for  days  did  the  columns  of  exultant 
volunteers,  arrogant  and  rapacious,  defile 
through  the  estate  on  their  way  to  the  west. 
Later  on  in  the  year,  when  (to  Austria's 
eternal  shame)  Russian  aid  was  called  in,  again 
did  the  bridge  at  Komjath  resound  to  the  tread 

228 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

of  moving  armies ;  and  the  distracted  inmates 
of  the  Castle  had  to  watch  and  keep  open 
house  day  and  night,  to  attend  to  the  wants  of 
Paskiewiecz's  infantry,  cossacks,  and  gunners. 

All  that  was  vexing  and  ruinous  enough ;  but 
at  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  talking,  that  is 
during  the  second  siege  of  Comorn,  and  whilst 
Gorgey  still  held  the  field  with  varying 
success  against  the  Imperial  allies,  the  sus- 
pense of  the  dwellers  at  the  Castle  reached  a 
climax. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  none  of  the 
fierce  and  merciless  engagements  which  char- 
acterized the  latter  part  of  the  war  actually 
took  place  at  that  singularly  important 
strategic  point;  a  matter  of  curiosity  to  the 
soldier,  for  the  holding  of  that  bridge  would 
have  been  of  the  utmost  importance  to  either 
party,  and  certainly  one  of  congratulation  to 
the  owners  of  that  magnificent  estate.  But  it 
more  than  once  happened  that,  at  different 
hours  of  one  and  the  same  day,  detachments, 
and  even  whole  regiments,  of  the  three  nation- 
alities clattered  over  the  Komjath  bridge. 
This  almost  incomprehensible  state  of  affairs  I 
myself  witnessed  on  the  first  day  that  I  was 
allowed  to  leave  my  couch  and  to  be  carried 
from  that  wing  of  the  Castle  set  aside  for  the 
wounded,  to  the  .drawing-room,  where  the 
family  was  gathered. 

229 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

This  was  a  privilege  less  due  even  to  my 
officer's  rank  among  the  many  wounded  of 
both  parties,  which  the  fortune  of  war  had 
gathered  at  Komjath  (although  your  true 
Hungarians  are  great  sticklers  for  rank  and 
status),  than  to  my  extreme  youth,  and  to  the 
motherly  tenderness  of  my  gracious  nurse. 

As  I  sank  back  on  the  soft  couch  under  the 
shaded  window,  where  by  the  Countess's 
orders  I  was  laid  by  my  bearers — an  ancient 
gate-keeper  and  an  equally  grey-headed 
steward,  the  only  men  left  on  the  estate,  all 
others  having  long  since  been  peremptorily 
drafted  away  under  the  ironical  name  of 
volunteers — I  looked  round  the  vast  room  and 
breathed  in  its  delicious  coolness  with  a  sense 
of  returning  life-enjoyment. 

One  by  one  my  hostess's  children — a  sturdy 
boy,  and  three  little  dainty  maids — came  up  to 
kiss  my  hand,  according  to  the  pretty  custom 
of  the  country.  The  mother  looked  on,  smil- 
ing, wonderfully  young  and  fair  to  own  such  a 
romping  brood ;  beautiful  in  the  deep  mourn- 
ing of  recent  widowhood,  with  the  character- 
istic beauty  of  true  Magyar  type — rich 
blooded,  bright-eyed,  lithe  and  firm  of  figure, 
graceful  of  motion,  and  caressing  of  address. 

"Here,"  thought  I,  with  grateful  heart,  "is 
little  of  the  blind  hatred  for  the  Austrian 
tyrants  which  is  said  to  animate  every  Hun- 

230 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

garian  soul  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest  in 
the  land." 

But  even  as  the  thought  grew  I  looked  up,  I 
knew  not  why,  to  meet  the  sloe-black  eyes  of  a 
girl  in  rich  peasant  dress  who  stood  sullenly 
near  the  door,  and  seemed  to  be  in  attendance 
on  the  children.  Those  eyes  shot  such  bitter 
animosity  at  me  that,  weak  as  I  was,  I  felt  my 
countenance  change. 

The  Countess  followed  the  direction  of  my 
startled  glance,  and  her  smile  faded  into  an 
expression  of  stern  thoughtfulness  I  had  not 
seen  before  upon  her  tender  face.  She  gave, 
however,  with  apparent  unconcern,  some 
order  to  the  patriotic  damsel — an  order  for 
refreshment  for  me,  as  it  turned  out. 

Somewhat  curiously  watching,  I  saw  the 
vindictive  hatred  of  the  black  eyes  transferred 
from  me  to  the  Countess,  and  felt  an  undefined 
apprehension,  although  I  was  then  far  from 
realising  the  peril  to  which  my  hostess's  kind- 
ness to  the  wounded  enemy  exposed  her,  and 
the  bearing  which  in  those  troublous  times  the 
ill-will  and  malice  of  a  dependent  could  have 
upon  the  fate  of  a  whole  family. 

After  a  second's  defiant  pause  the  girl  tossed 
her  plaits  of  raven  hair  and  disappeared  upon 
her  errand.  The  mistress  let  her  thoughtful 
gaze  fall  for  a  moment  on  the  children ;  then 
with  a  sigh  seemed  resolutely  to  dismiss  the 

231 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

disturbing  idea,  and  began  a  cheerful  talk  with 
me.  She  sat  beside  my  couch  by  the  window, 
where  through  the  drawn  curtains  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine fell  slanting  on  the  rich  black  coils  of  her 
hair,  and  gilt  the  delicate  olive  fingers,  busy 
with  sweet  impartial  charity  upon  lint-making 
for  all  the  sufferers  of  the  war. 

"Surely,"  thought  I,  in  dreamy  enthusiasm, 
"this  is  the  very  type  of  noble  womanhood!" 
And  content  to  lie  still  and  admire  and  wor- 
ship, the  disturbing  incident  of  the  maid 
passed  from  my  mind. 

But  this  placid  state  of  happiness  was  not  to 
endure  long.  The  old  steward  presently 
entered  upon  us  with  disordered  mien.  Point- 
ing to  the  west,  through  the  window,  he 
uttered  in  his  tongue  a  short  phrase,  evidently 
of  serious  import,  and  handed  the  field-glasses 
to  his  mistress.  She  rose,  and  as  the  children 
rushed  to  the  window,  drew  back  the  curtains 
to  scan  the  distant  road.  Half  dazzled  by  the 
streaming  light,  I  raised  myself  on  the  pillow 
and  looked  forth  too. 

After  a  few  seconds  the  Countess  paused  in 
her  search  to  exchange  a  few  hurried  words 
with  the  old  man,  who,  pointing  at  me,  ran 
into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  halted  with 
distracted  irresolution.  She  raised  the  glasses 
to  her  eyes  again,  then  I  saw  her  bosom  heave 
with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.     She  gave  a  quick 

232 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

order,  and  sat  down  again  by  my  side,  wliilst 
the  steward  hastened  from  the  room. 

' '  Do  not  be  alarmed, ' '  she  said,  as  she  gave 
another  glance  out  of  the  window.  "These 
are  Russians,  and  we  have  not  much  to  fear, 
except  plunder  from  the  men  and  insoleuce 
from  the  officers,  so  long  as  Imperial  orders 
are  obeyed.  Fortunately,  with  good  watch 
outside,  and  this  little  friend  here"  (tapping 
the  field-glass),  "we  can  always  have  the 
black-and-yellow  floating  in  time  to  show  that 
we  are  not  rebels. ' ' 

Even  as  she  spoke  I  could  see  from  my  couch 
the  black  eagle  spread  on  the  ample  yellow 
folds  of  the  Austrian  standard  rapidly  running 
up  the  stafE  over  the  main  gateway.  She  gave 
a  laugh. 

"Otherwise,"  she  continued,  "we  should  be 
treated  as  holding  with  the  revolution.  Poor 
Miklos,  faithful  servant!  "  His  old  legs  have 
much  ado  to  keep  up  now  with  Austrian 
loyalty,  now  with  Hungarian  patriotism;  for 
woe  would  indeed  betide  us  were  the  Kossuth- 
ists  to  find  us  with  the  abominated  emblem 
waving  over  our  land.  But  we  have  other 
colours  ready  against  such  time  when  they 
appear  on  the  scene.  I  think  I  had  almost 
rather  risk  Austrian  severity  than  Hungarian 
vengeance,  but  I  own  to  you  that  my  chief 
object  is  to  avoid  giving  offence  to  either  side. 

233 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

I  should  have  had  to  relegate  you  in  haste  to 
your  hospitable  quarters,  were  it  a  body  of 
our  patriots  that  now  threatens  a  visit  at 
Komjath,"  she  added  with  a  smile,  "for  to 
find  a  white-coated  monster  in  our  immediate 
circle  would  brand  us  traitors  of  the  deepest 
dye." 

As  she  spoke,  the  rumour  had  drawn  nearer; 
the  clink  and  tramping  of  the  column,  and  a 
melancholy  chant,  rising  and  falling  to  the 
measure  of  the  men's  pace,  no  doubt  by  order 
and  for  lack  of  more  stirring  music,  resounded 
in  the  courtyard  and  past  the  Castle  windows, 

"Little  mamma,"  cried  the  boy  in  German, 
"the  soldiers  are  going  by."  And  in  truth 
there  seemed  to  be  no  sign  of  their  halting. 

• '  Thank  God ! ' '  said  the  lady  fervently. 

But  the  little  Count  presently  whispered  in 
great  excitement — 

"Oh,  no,  there  are  some  riding-men  in  green 
— ofiBcers — that  stop.  Little  mamma,  they  are 
coming  in ! " 

My  hostess  took  up  her  work  again  with 
admirable  composure ;  and  a  moment  later  the 
old  steward,  a  bleached  look  of  terror  on  his 
face,  introduced  four  or  five  officers,  who 
strode  in,  arrogantly,  cap  on  head,  and  cast 
angry  looks  around. 

The  Countess  rose  with  her  usual  dignity. 
But  the   senior  officer,  who  seemed  to  be  a 

234 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

brigadier,  broke  out  at  once,  in  rasping  and 
incorrect  German. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  inquired, 
without  the  sHghtest  formula  of  courtesy. 
"My  scouts  report  that  the  Imperial  flag  only 
appeared  on  this  house  on  the  approach  of  our 
troops.  Is  this  another  hidden  nest  of  revolu- 
tionists?" 

As  soon  as  she  was  allowed  to  speak,  the 
Countess  in  her  firm  and  quiet  voice  briefly 
explained  the  situation  of  the  household. 
Meanwhile,  the  Russian's  suspicious  eyes  fell 
upon  me  in  my  corner  by  the  window-sill,  and 
his  lowering  countenance  cleared. 

Lying  at  my  ease  in  the  family  circle, 
propped  up  on  cushions,  with  a  half-finished 
bowl  of  broth  by  my  side,  I  was  personal  and 
sufficient  evidence  that  an  Imperial  officer  was 
not  looked  upon  in  the  house  as  an  enemy. 

After  exchanging  a  few  words  with  me,  the 
brigadier  professed  himself  content  with  the 
state  of  affairs  at  Komjath,  and  he  and  his 
party,  assuming  a  less  hostile  manner,  drank 
down  with  bearish  heartiness  a  few  glasses  of 
the  Arak  which  had  been,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  brought  up  for  their  refreshment. 
One  of  them  unceremoniously  refilled  a  pocket- 
flask  out  of  the  decanter. 

During  that  time  the  little  Count,  somewhat 
reassured,  had  stepped  up  to  one  of  the  offi- 

235 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

cers,  and  looking  into  his  hairy  face  with  art- 
less interest,  stretched  forth  an  audacious  little 
hand  towards  the  gilded  hilt  of  his  curved 
sabre. 

"Wouldst  thou  like  to  see  it  work?"  asked 
the  savage  in  bad  German,  with  a  loud  though 
not  ill-natured  laugh.  And  he  forthwith  drew 
the  weapon  from  the  scabbard  and  struck  with 
a  knowing  sweep  at  the  nearest  thing,  a  dainty 
little  Vernis  Martin  table  which  stood  at  the 
Countess's  elbow.  It  was  cloven  in  halves; 
the  Countess  could  scarcely  repress  a  shriek, 
and  the  boy  burst  into  a  roar  of  mingled  anger 
and  fear. 

Charmed,  however,  with  his  own  pleasantry, 
which  his  companions  had  witnessed  approv- 
ingly— 

"Here,  young  master,"  exclaimed  the  giant, 
awkwardly  fumbling  in  his  pocket.  From  this 
receptacle  he  produced  a  slab  of  chocolate, 
which  he  placed  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
with  the  same  weapon  cut  it  into  several  bits, 
thereby  showing  a  new  kind  of  dexterity. 
"Here,  take  and  cry  no  more."  There  were 
dried  blood-stains  on  the  blade. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Countess,  sweeping 
hurriedly  forward,  to  forestall  her  son's  indig- 
nant refusal;  and  taking  the  chocolate  from 
the  Cossack's  grimy  fingers,  "Iss,  Paulchen," 
she  said  with  a  compelling  look. 

236 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

But  the  child  passionately  resisted;  and, 
very  much  amused,  the  detestable  crew  took 
their  departure  with  what  no  doubt  they  con- 
sidered a  good  grace. 

"Your  presence  here  to-day  has  saved  us 
from  worse, ' '  said  the  Countess,  with  her  sweet 
calm  smile,  as  I  too,  with  youthful  heat,  began 
to  inveigh  against  the  behaviour  of  our  allies, 
and  lament  the  damage  they  had  caused. 
**  There  are  ghastly  tales  of  the  indignities  these 
people  have  heaped  on  Magyar  households. ' ' 

It  pleases  me  to  think  that  what  she  said  was 
indeed  the  fact ;  that  my  presence  that  day  was 
a  protection  to  her  and  hers;  for  it  was 
through  the  same  circumstance — her  heavenly 
goodness  to  a  sick  lad — that  destruction  hov- 
ered over  her  whole  household  but  a  little 
while  after. 

In  due  course  we  heard  the  welcome  sound 
of  the  last  Russian's  departure.  Not  long 
afterwards  the  westerly  breeze  brought  to  our 
ears  the  first  booms  of  gun-fire  in  the  direction 
of  Comorn,  where  another  general  engagement 
was  developed.  These  terrible  whispers  of 
destruction  lasted  many  hours. 

After  dusk  the  unfortunate  house  was  again 
filled  with  troops — Honveds  this  time.  At 
that  hour,  happily,  being  still  but  a  poor 
invalid,  I  was  once  again  in  my  bed  among  the 
sick  and  wounded.     It  was  the  luck  of  war  that 

837 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

there  were  at  the  time  actually  more  Hungari- 
ans in  this  extempore  hospital  than  others,  for 
the  defeated  Kossuthists  were  not  in  a  mood  to 
treat  with  leniency  a  house  that  harboured  too 
many  Imperials. 

During  the  short  glimpse  we  had  of  these 
visitors,  I  trembled  for  our  benefactress;  I 
little  wotted  then  that  if  the  Magyar,  defeated, 
baffled,  and  thirsting  for  vengeance,  was  to  be 
dreaded,  the  Magyar  exulting  in  triumph 
would  prove  more  sinister  still. 

The  chief  of  the  party  that  visited  the  Castle 
— an  enormous  man  with  matted  black  whis- 
kers, loathly  elf-locks,  and  dirty  bandages 
hiding  half  a  face  one  could  not  find  it  in  one's 
heart  to  desire  a  fuller  view  of — entered  upon 
the  dim  silence  of  the  infirmary  with  a  brood- 
ing air  and  a  vast  deal  of  unnecessary  clangour, 
accompanied  by  several  lantern-bearers.  He 
passed  from  bed  to  bed,  cynically  prodding 
every  man  with  the  tip  of  his  scabbard  and 
questioning  him  in  Hungarian.  On  those  who 
could  but  falter  their  replies  in  German,  he 
bestowed  a  curse  and  an  ominous  glower  of  his 
solitary  eye. 

One  of  our  melancholy  company,  a  Russian 
who  had  been  very  feeble  all  day,  was  found 
to  be  dead ;  him  the  colonel  spurned  with  his 
foot,  and  the  carcase  was  forthwith  carried 
away. 

238 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

But,  apparently,  the  account  given  by  the 
Hungarian  wounded  of  their  treatment  at 
Komjath  was  sufficiently  favourable,  for  the 
truculent  intruder  at  last  went  out  without 
further  action,  only  stopping  a  moment  over 
my  bed  to  examine  me  with  a  malevolent  grin. 

Here  the  visitation  ended ;  and  then,  for  the 
second  time  in  the  same  day,  did  my  dear 
lady's  charity — bestowed  for  no  ulterior 
reason,  but  solely  through  the  sweet  prompt- 
ings of  her  woman's  heart — conjure  misfortune 
from  her  home. 

"And  so,"  thought  I,  "it  must  always  be; 
here  can  neither  Magyar  nor  Imperialist  ever 
find  aught  but  to  praise  and  bless."  Alas!  I 
was  young  in  those  days,  and  knew  not  how 
much  lower  than  the  beast  man  may  sink  when 
his  passions  are  unchained  in  prolonged  inter- 
necine war. 

For  two  days  matters  went  according  to 
ordinary  routine ;  the  hours  that  I  could  bear 
to  be  up  and  dressed  were  most  blissfully  spent 
by  me  in  the  Countess's  company.  It  was 
natural  enough  that  by  this  time,  boy-like,  I 
should  have  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  her ;  a 
worshipping,  distant  love,  content  to  feast  on 
kind  looks  and  gentle  words,  to  treasure  the 
memory  of  a  smile  or  of  the  touch  of  a 
motherly  hand. 

But  on  the  third  morning  no  one  came  to 

239 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

fetch  me  as  usual.  And  then  I  was  left,  day 
after  day,  to  drag  out  their  weary  length  from 
morn  till  night,  in  the  melancholy  surround- 
ings of  the  hospital  room — this  with  a  sore 
heart  and  wondering,  at  first;  by-and-by  with 
secret  ungrateful  revilings. 

The  Countess  passed  daily  through  the  ward 
as  usual,  but  only  addressed  a  few  gentle, 
indifferent  questions  and  remarks  to  me;  the 
usual  attendants  brought  me  food  and  helped 
me  to  dress. 

' ' She  is  tired  of  me, ' '  I  thought.  "Of  course 
it  becomes  a  bore  in  the  end  to  have  a  miser- 
able invalid  to  dance  attendance  upon  for  so 
many  hours  a  day.  She  is  tired  of  me,  and 
now  I  am  to  be  dropped.  Why  first  be  so  kind 
to  be  now  so  cruel !  Why  not  let  me  die  when 
I  was  so  near  death!"  I  lay  outside  my  camp 
bed  and  hugged  my  injuries  in  true  boy 
fashion. 

.  At  length,  about  the  fifth  day,  there  came  a 
rumour  among  the  patients — I  can  hardly  say 
whence  it  originated — a  grin  of  exultation 
spread  from  one  wan,  swarthy  Hungarian  face 
to  another  all  round  the  ward,  while  the  few 
Imperials  feigned  a  mighty  indifference. 

There  had  been  some  great  Hungarian  vic- 
tories; Kossuth  now  held  the  whole  land 
indeed ;  the  National  Cause  triumphed.  When 
I  was  being  dressed  during  the  day,   I  rose 

240 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

giddily  from  my  bed,  a  sudden  sense  of  fury 
and  impotency  filling  my  poor  weak  frame. 
The  revolutionists  triumphant,  and  I — I  of  the 
gallant  Chevau-legers — reduced  to  this! 

A  few  jocular  but  not  ill-meant  taunts — for 
common  sufferings  ever  tend  to  fill  the  chasm 
of  antipathy — were  thrown  at  me  by  grinning 
rebels  as  I  passed  their  beds.  At  the  door  I 
fell  upon  the  old  steward,  who  was  just  enter- 
ing with  food  and  wine. 

"Are these  news  true?"  I  cried,  incautiously. 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  angrily,  and 
motioned  me  back.  I  read  such  terror  in  his 
looks — though  he  had  always  seemed  so  craven 
a  body  in  my  foolish  eyes  that  I  had  hitherto 
made  rather  a  joke  of  him  to  the  Countess  and 
her  children — that  I  returned  to  my  bed ;  and, 
as  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  it,  a  miserable  object 
enough,  with  feeble  legs  dangling,  longing  to 
be  up  and  doing,  or,  at  any  rate,  back  with 
my  hostess  to  preside  in  her  councils  with 
valuable  advice,  there  came  into  the  room  the 
youngest  child  laden  with  a  big  basket  full  of 
fruit. 

It  had  been  the  custom  of  the  mother  to 
send  her  little  ones  from  time  to  time  to  bring 
the  "poor  sick  soldiers"  such  dainties  as  she 
had  to  give,  so  I  was  not  astonished  at  sight  of 
the  small  messenger.  A  pretty  creature  she 
was,  not  more  than  five  years  old,  but  bold  as 

241 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

a  bantam,  with  a  mischievous  dark  face  from 
which  shone  out  dark  hazel  eyes  as  bright  as  a 
hawk's.  With  grave  sweetness  the  little  maid 
distributed  her  burden. 

When  she  came  to  the  officer's  couch — that 
was  mine — with  a  broad  smile  she  drew  her- 
self up,  tapped  her  heels  together,  and  made 
the  smartest  military  salute.  All  eyes  were 
fixed  on  her,  and  there  was  an  answering 
smile  on  most  of  the  suffering  faces.  None 
but  myself,  however,  took  in  the  message 
which  the  child,  well-drilled  beforehand, 
delivered  in  French. 

"Monsieur  I'officier,"  she  said,  in  quaintly 
precise  accents,  "ne  faites  pas  I'^tonn^,  mais 
prenez  du  fruit;  et  trouvez  moyen  d'aller 
bientot  dans  le  long  corridor  oil  vous  attend 
madame  ma  mbre.  .  .  .  C'estun  secret,"  she 
added,  handing  me  the  basket.  Then  she 
made  another  salute  and  went  away  laughing. 

By-and-by,  leaving  my  companions  in  sick- 
ness engaged  upon  their  afternoon  refection,  I 
made  my  V7ay  with  a  natural  air  from  the 
ward,  and  downstairs  to  the  long,  cool  corridor 
whither  the  rendezvous  called  me. 

In  the  dark  recess  of  a  small  passage  leading 
to  some  unused  apartments  I  found  my  hostess. 
She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  me,  and — I  don't 
know  why — tears  rose  to  my  eyes. 

"What  must  you  have  thought  of  our  strange 

242 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

discourtesy  these  last  days?"  she  said,  in  a 
melancholy  voice,  hardly  raised  above  a  whis- 
per. "It  has  not  been  our  wont,  I  assure  you, 
to  treat  honourable  guests  thus — but,  alas,  my 
friend,  it  was  as  much  for  your  sake  as  for  our 
own.  I  have  been  denounced — denounced  by 
one  of  my  own  people,  by  a  girl  to  whom  I  have 
been  as  a  mother  .  .  .  but  let  that  pass.  She 
has  a  lover  in  the  Kossuth  ranks,  and,  as  I  say, 
I  have  been  denounced  as  an  Imperialist.  And 
that,  you  know,  for  a  full-blooded  Hungarian, 
on  Hungarian  soil,  is  the  deepest  treachery," 

She  gave  a  faint  smile  and  paused,  I 
remembered  the  dark  damsel  of  the  vindictive 
eyes  with  growing  anticipation  of  evil. 

"Surely,  surely,"  I  cried,  "it  was  not 
because  of  your  heavenly  goodness  to  me!" 

"Hush!"  she  whispered,  "not  so  loud!  God 
alone  knows  how  many  spies  I  may  now  have 
in  my  household."  Then  she  added  with 
exquisite  simplicity,  "Believe  me  I  do  not 
regret  the  little  I  have  done  for  you;  it  has 
been  a  sore  grief  for  me  to  have  to  neglect  my 
guest.  But  I  am  standing,  as  it  were,  on  a 
volcano.  The  Nationalists  are  victorious  on 
every  side,  and  tales  have  come  to  us  that  they 
are  as  unsparing  as  they  are  swift  in  their 
reprisals.  We  would  have  sought  safety  in 
flight,  I  and  my  little  ones  and  our  good 
Miklos;  for  two   days  we  have  watched  our 

243 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

chance,   but  the   servants   were  also  on    the 
watch;  we  dared  not." 

"Perhaps,"  I  stammered  in  horror,  "when  I 
deliver  this  place  from  my  presence,  the  cause 
of  irritation  will  be  gone,  this  senseless  ani- 
mosity against  you  will  die  of  itself.  And,  you 
know,  most  gracious  lady,  it  is  my  duty  to  try 
and  rejoin  the  colours  as  soon  as  ever  this  cursed 
weakness  allows  me  to  make  the  attempt." 

"Alas,"  she  said,  "and  if  you  do  I  shall  be 
but  doubly  convicted  of  guilt,  accused  of 
encompassing  your  escape." 

I  heard  her  in  an  anguish  of  perplexity.  I 
had  been  looking  forward  to  the  instant  when 
I  could,  with  the  barest  chance  of  success, 
make  a  bold  try  to  reach  the  nearest  Austrian 
outposts ;  for  one  recurring  burden  in  my  long 
spells  of  reflection  was  the  dread  of  any 
appearance  to  have  tarried  too  long  from  the 
duties  of  the  field.  But  how  could  I  risk 
bringing  fresh  misfortune  upon  that  noble 
lady  to  whom,  albeit  most  innocently,  I  had 
already  been  the  cause  of  so  much  anxiety? 

She,  herself,  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade 
me  from  what  I  had  termed  my  duty.  The 
generosity  of  her  silence  smote  me  to  the 
heart.  I  took  my  resolve,  and,  as  I  kissed  her 
hand — 

"At  least  then,"  I  whispered  earnestly,  "I 
shall  be  near  you,  whatever  betide." 

244 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

She  looked  at  me — great  gawky  lad  that  I 
was — as  a  mother  might,  and  said,  quietly: 

"We  are  in  God's  hand;  but  at  least  you  are 
warned.  You  understand.  And  now  you  must 
go,  for  this,  too,  is  dangerous  to  both  of  us. " 

Again  I  kissed  her  hand  and  left  her.  As  I 
emerged  from  the  shade  into  the  light  of  the 
great  windows  at  the  turning  of  the  passage,  I 
came  face  to  face  with  the  very  girl  to  whom  I 
imputed  the  base  ingratitude  of  denouncing  her 
mistress.  She  was  in  the  act  of  drawing  on 
her  shoes, 

I  started  back  with  an  instant  flash  of  con- 
viction that  we  had  noiselessly  been  tracked  to 
our  secret  interview,  and  was  appalled  at  the 
thought  of  the  capital  this  creature's  malice 
could,  under  the  circumstances,  make  of  our 
innocent  conversation. 

She  dropped  me  an  insolent,  mocking 
curtsey,  and  went  by,  rapping  on  her  heels, 
without  a  word.  The  look  in  her  eyes  was 
this  time  triumphant  in  its  hatred. 

Heavy  of  heart,  I  re-entered  the  sickly 
atmosphere  of  the  ward  which,  as  matters 
stood,  was  already  much  like  a  prison  to  me, 
weighing  in  the  uneven  balance  of  a  sick  man's 
mind  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  dilemma,  the  most 
trying  perhaps  to  a  soldier  that  can  be.  con- 
ceived. But  the  problem,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, was  rudely  solved  that  day, 

245 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

Early  in  the  sultry  afternoon  there  came, 
without,  a  great  clatter  of  hoofs  and  trailing 
scabbards;  and  vigorous  Terejntete's,  with 
other  Hungarian  expletives  bursting  from  the 
new-comers,  testified  fully  to  the  horsemen's 
nationality  even  before  an  under  officer  of 
hussars  tramped  into  the  room  and  placed  a 
sentry  at  the  door,  after  which  it  was  patent 
that  I  and  my  fellow  Imperials  were  to  regard 
ourselves  as  prisoners. 

Later  on  there  floated  in  through  the  open 
window  the  blare  of  military  bands,  distant  at 
first,  then  nearer  and  nearer  till  it  sounded  in 
the  court  of  honour  itself,  amid  an  extraor- 
dinary noise  and  confusion  which  presently 
spread  throughout  the  whole  mansion. 

Although  no  information  could  be  drawn 
from  the  taciturn  hussar,  who,  with  his  drawn 
sabre  on  his  knees,  sat  on  a  bench  near  the 
door,  smoking  his  red  clay-pipe,  it  was  easy  to 
guess,  of  course,  that  the  headquarters  of 
some  general  had  been  transferred  to  Kom- 
jath.  But  what  the  gentry  were  about,  to  pro- 
duce such  endless  bustle,  inside  and  out,  such 
hammering  and  tramping,  exercised  my 
ingenuity  in  the  extreme. 

The  mystery  thickened  when  at  supper-time 
a  note  on  official  foolscap  was  brought  into  the 
ward  by  a  file  of  soldiers  for  "Cornet  Ainsdale 
of  the  Royal- Imperial  Chevau-legers,"  which 

246 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

note  requested  his  attendance  within  half-an- 
hour  in  the  dining-hall,  "by  request  of  the 
Lady  of  Komjath. " 

"By  order  of  General  Nagy-Sandor, "  said 
the  soldier  who  handed  me  the  missive,  as  I 
looked  up  amazed. 

With  the  calmness  born  of  immediate 
emergency,  and  feeling  the  eyes  of  all  my 
comrades  fixed  curiously  upon  me,  I  rose  from 
my  usual  recumbent  position,  made  a  deliber- 
ate toilet,  and  donned  the  damning  white  coat 
which  I  had  thrown  off  in  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Then,  without  a  word,  I  followed  my  guard. 

The  house  was  now  as  busy  as  an  ant-hill, 
swarming  with  men  in  all  conceivable  semi- 
military  accoutrements,  but  bearing  peaceably 
enough  dishes,  napery  or  baskets  of  wine,  and 
driving  the  distracted  maids  hither  and 
thither,  some  with  curses,  others  with  laughter 
and  cavalier  gallantry. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  dining-room  I 
stopped  amazed:  in  truth  it  was  a  strange 
sight.  The  walls  were  hung  with  green 
branches  and  scarves  of  the  Hungarian 
colours.  The  great  centre  table,  spread  as  for 
a  banquet,  was  laden  with  magnificent  silver 
plate,  which  (as  I  learned  since)  had  been 
fished  up  for  the  occasion  from  a  safe  hiding 
place  at  the  bottom  of  the  well.  The  room, 
brilliantly  illuminated,  was  filled  with  Honved 

247 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

officers  of  every  rank.  A  few  were  in  the 
decent  regular  Hungarian  uniform,  the  majority 
were  attired,  after  the  melodramatic  manner 
cherished  by  the  revolutionary  leaders,  in  long 
blue  coats  tightly  compassed  by  tricolour 
scarves,  high  boots,  chained  and  spurred, 
broad  felt  hats  almost  covered  by  fluttering 
green  or  blue  plumes,  pistols  in  their  belts, 
and  enormous  cavalry  sabres  trailing  at  their 
heels. 

In  the  midst  of  this  unseemly  throng  I  pres- 
ently distinguished  the  white  dresses  of  the 
children;  and  the  Countess  herself,  a  patch  of 
darkness  among  so  much  garish  colour,  in  her 
long  mourning  robes. 

The  little  ones  were  clinging  to  her  skirts, 
too  frightened,  it  seemed,  even  to  cry.  The 
boy,  his  small  sunburnt  face  puckered  into  a 
scowl  of  defiance,  stood  by  her  side,  and  she 
now  and  again  passed  her  hand,  as  if  uncon- 
sciously, over  the  short  black  stubble  of  his 
cropped  head.  She  was  engaged  in  earnest 
intercourse  with  two  officers  whose  backs  were 
turned  to  me.  A  kind  of  circle  was  formed 
round  the  group,  and  the  cold  thought  sud- 
denly struck  me  that  she  looked  as  though 
standing  on  her  trial.  My  guards  stopped 
just  inside  the  room,  waiting  for  an  order  to 
approach,  and  I  was  able  to  watch  undisturbed. 

There  was  a  stillness  in  the  room,  a  stillness 

248 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

most  impressive  where  so  many  were  gathered 
together.  All  looks  were  bent  upon  the 
Countess,  and  her  voice,  delicate,  refined,  and 
strangely  controlled,  alone  broke  the  silence. 
Every  word  fell  from  her  lips  as  clear  as  a 
drop  of  water;  by  her  eyes  alone  I  guessed 
there  was  deadly  mischief  afoot;  they  were 
dark  with  anguish,  yet  they  never  wavered  in 
their  earnest  fixing  of  him  who  seemed  chief 
of  the  band — a  burly  brute  of  most  doubtful 
and  unsavoury  mien,  and  more  theatrical  even 
than  the  rest  in  magnitude  of  sash,  spurs,  and 
feathers. 

When  she  ceased  he  cleared  his  throat,  spat 
on  the  polished  floor,  and  began  to  address  her 
in  judicial,  deliberate  tones,  preserving,  as  he 
spoke,  the  same  easy  insolent  attitude,  half 
resting  on  his  sword,  one  foot  negligently 
crossed  over  the  other.  My  young  blood — the 
little  that  the  Valkyrie's  buckshot  had  left  in 
me — boiled  in  my  veins.  I  would  gladly  have 
given  it  all  to  be  able  to  strike  that  ruffian's 
face  as  he  stood  in  his  idiotic  frippery  before 
this  high-born  lady,  so  noble  in  her  bearing,  so 
touching  in  her  young  widowhood,  so  beauti- 
ful, and  so  helpless  with  her  children  around 
her. 

I  could  make  no  sense  of  his  words,  but  I 
noted  how  now  and  then  she  shook  her  head  in 
indignant  denial.     As  she  interrupted  him  at 

249 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

length  he  brutally  raised  his  voice  and  bore 
down  her  disclaimers  by  sheer  strength  of 
lung;  and  then  he  let  fall  a  short  sentence 
with  unmistakable  intent.  At  this  there 
passed,  even  to  my  seeing,  who  could  make 
nothing  of  it  all,  a  wave  of  strong  emotion 
through  the  whole  throng  of  listeners. 

The  Countess  recoiled,  her  pale  face 
blanched  to  lividness;  and  with  a  gesture  I 
have  never  forgotten,  gathered  all  her  children 
with  both  arms  into  the  sweep  of  her  wide 
skirts,  as  if  she  would  shut  out  the  horror  from 
their  ears. 

The  general  laughed  loudly,  and  wheeling 
round  caught  sight  of  me  as  I  still  stood 
motionless  between  my  two  attendants  in  a 
frenzy  of  mute  rage,  which  only  an  imminent 
sense  of  the  necessity  of  self-control  enabled 
me  to  conceal. 

He  looked  at  me  keenly  for  a  moment,  then 
in  harsh  German : 

"Young  man,"  he  asked,  "how  long  have 
you  served  under  the  black-and-yellow?" 

"Six  months,"  I  said. 

"You  are  English?" 

"I  am  so." 

"Yet  the  English,  I  am  told,  hold  for  the 
free  Magyar  against  the  accursed  Austrian." 

This  I  would  have  denied,  but  he  cut  me 
short  sharply. 

250 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

"See  here,  young  sir,  cast  your  lot  with  us 
and  your  sword  will  be  at  once  given  back  to 
you,  and  with  it  the  glorious  tricolour  sash. 
Our  side  is  winning  and  will  soon  have  swept 
the  invaders  north,  west,  and  south.  You 
will  not  be  the  first — ha,  you  refuse!" — I  had 
not  spoken,  but  I  suppose  my  face  was  elo- 
quent enough  —  "then  take  your  chance. 
Please  yourself.  We  want  officers  for  ex- 
change— or  retaliation.  And  retaliation,  just 
at  present,  is  the  most  likely,"  he  added, 
thrusting  his  ugly  face  close  to  mine  with  an 
offensive  and  significant  grin,  "for  by  to-day's 
news  there  has  been  more  hanging  of  patriots 
in  Haynau's  lines.  And  now,  since  it  is  our 
wish,  on  this  festive  day,  to  gratify  our 
gracious  hostess,  who,  we  understand,  loves 
an  Austrian  better  than  her  own  people,  you 
will  please  to  conduct  her  to  the  supper  table. ' ' 

Thereupon  he  bellowed  forth  some  order,  on 
which  there  was  a  general  and  noisy  move 
towards  the  board. 

Before  he  left  me,  the  triumphant  brigand 
said  three  words  to  one  of  my  escort,  who  for 
the  remainder  of  the  night  shadowed  me  with 
silent  pertinacity. 

The  Countess,  whose  side  I  immediately 
sought,  mechanically  took  my  arm  and  moved 
with  me  to  the  vacant  seats  which  seemed  left 
for  us.      As  I  sat  down   my  eyes  wandered 

251 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

vaguely  round  the  table,  and  marked  the  chil- 
dren's little  heads,  in  different  degrees  of 
proximity  to  their  plates,  amidst  a  group  of 
boyish-looking  officers  who  were  laughing  and 
joking  with  them,  kindly  enough  it  must  be 
said.  These  were  at  the  end,  where  the 
juniors  of  this  strange  party  had  collected 
together.  Higher  up  were  less  pleasant 
countenances,  hairy  and  savage,  out  of  which 
many  menacing  pairs  of  eyes  were  directed 
towards  us.  Then,  suddenly,  as  my  gaze 
came  nearer  home,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
guest  who  had  taken  the  place  of  honour  on  the 
general's    right. 

I  was  transfixed. 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  that  face: 
there,  in  the  flash,  was  the  vision-face  that  had 
hovered  in  the  darkness  of  the  Ap^li  woods! 

Although  I  remained  staring  at  her  with  a 
stupefaction  which  in  my  weak  state  I  was 
long  in  overcoming,  the  young  woman — the 
lady  I  should  say,  for  there  was  no  mistaking 
her  high-bred  status,  from  her  composed  bear- 
ing and  refinement  under  her  semi-masculine 
garb — took  no  notice  of  me,  but  carried  on  a 
detached  conversation  with  the  general,  cast- 
ing, however,  ever  and  anon,  a  hard  look  or  a 
cruel  smile  on  my  neighbour.  And  the  repast 
proceeded,  noisily  on  the  offxcers'  side,  in  abso- 
lute silence  on  ours. 

At  length  my  hostess  spoke.     She  had  sat  up 

252 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

to  this,  staring  at  her  untouched  plate;  but 
now  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  children, 
and  then  upon  the  woman  who  had  usurped 
her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  a  long, 
agonised  gaze.  The  latter  met  the  look  with 
unflinching  hardness,  and  the  Countess  sighed 
as  if  awaking  from  a  dream. 

"And  that  is  my  sister!"  she  said  to  me  with 
tragic  simplicity. 

Then  with  her  eyes  looking  as  it  were  into 
the  future — those  deep  blue  eyes,  whose  beauty 
was  in  their  sweetness,  unlike  the  haughty 
Amazon's  opposite,  which  were  hard  and 
brilliant  as  a  hawk's — she  added — 

"And  it  may  be  said,  in  days  to  come,  when 
this  fearful  war  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  that  a 
defenceless  woman  and  her  children  were  tor- 
tured and  put  to  death  by  people  of  her  own 
race,  through  the  betrayal  of  her  sister. ' ' 

"Great  God!  Impossible!  I  cannot  believe 
it,"  I  stammered  aghast. 

As  I  spoke  a  thin  smile  flickering  on  the  red 
lips  of  my  Valkyrie,  showed  that,  for  all  her 
indifferent  airs,  she  was  keenly  observant  of  us 
both.  She  suddenly  leaned  forward  and  fixed 
me  with  her  burning  eyes,  and  changing  her 
speech  to  German,  which  she  spoke  with  a 
singular  hiss,  abruptly  addressed  me, 

"Believe  it,  Herr  Lieutenant,  believe  it,  for 
it  may  very  well  be !     And  if  it  be  your  own 

253 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

fate  to  survive,  pray  repeat  the  tale  far  and 
wide!" 

There  fell  a  dead  silence  upon  the  guests  as 
she  uttered  these  words,  and  all  eyes  were 
directed  towards  our  end.  The  incredible 
cold-bloodedness  of  her  speech,  the  insolence 
of  her  gaze,  the  sense  of  being  watched,  stung 
me  from  my  bewilderment  into  a  show  of 
expostulation. 

"It  is  a  hard  thing  to  believe,"  said  I  hotly; 
"the   Hungarians    are    merciless    enemies — I 
have  experienced  it  myself — but  they  are  after 
all    soldiers,    civilised    men,    not    savages,    to 
murder  women  and  torture  babes. ' ' 
She  answered  with  bitter  emphasis — 
"So   are   you    Imperials,    soldiers,    civilised 
men,  not  savages,  by  your  account;   but  you 
flog   Italian    and   Hungarian   women — that   is 
not  torture !     You  hang  patriots,  who  fight  for 
freedom     and    rights — that     is    not    murder! 
Unable  to  meet  us  heart  to  heart,  under  the 
fair  sun,  upon  your  own  strength,  you  hound 
up  all  our  rapacious  neighbours  against  us; 
and  these  not  being  yet  sufficient  to  give  you 
victory,   you  call   to   your  aid  tribes  of  wild 
beasts  from  Russia.     This  is  honourable,  is  it 
not?      So,    Herr    Lieutenant,    we  must   even 
fight  in  the  way  you  taught  us.     Aye,  believe 
it,  believe  it!      For  it  is  as  true  as  that  my 
betrothed,    a  noble   Magyar   fighting  for  his 

254 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

rights,  has  been  strangled  on  Austrian  gal- 
lows ;  as  true  as  that  I,  a  woman,  took  his  place 
among  soldiers  and  have  been  flogged  by 
Austrian  rods.  You  can  tell  your  chief  Hay- 
nau,  if  so  it  be  that  you  live  to  return  to  him, 
what  you  shall  have  seen,  a  high  lady  of  the 
land," — pointing  to  the  Countess — "because 
she  has  been  proved  traitress  to  her  country, 
hanged  at  her  own  gates,  yes,  and  her  children, 
too,  that  a  brood  of  traitors  may  not  live! 
Tell  him  that,  Herr  Lieutenant,  and  assure 
him  that  there  is  not  a  house  now,  not  a  comer 
of  our  country  where  treachery,  even  in 
thought,  can  hide  itself  from  Hungarian 
retribution!" 

Against  this  extraordinary  tirade  I  could  at 
first  find  no  words.  The  Countess  herself,  her 
eyes  fixed  with  an  indescribable  expression 
upon  her  sister's  face,  remained  dumb,  as  if 
realising  all  the  uselessness  of  argument. 

"And  yet,"  I  retorted  at  last,  still  making  a 
faltering  effort  at  expostulation,  "you  inter- 
ceded in  the  woods  near  Comorn  to  save  me 
from  the  scythe.  It  is  to  your  womanly 
instinct  of  pity ' ' 

The  contemptuous  smile  that  curled  her  lips 
froze  the  eager  words  upon  my  tongue.  In 
bantering  tones  she  spoke — 

"Oh,  it  was  you,  young  sir,  was  it  indeed? 
And  I  interceded,  say  you?     You  really  flatter 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

yourself!  No,  no,  my  pretty  officer,  I  thought 
you  were  despatched — that  my  escopette  had 
done  its  work.  I  merely  told  the  man  'twould 
be  useless,  and  would  spoil  a  pretty  corpse!" 

There  was  a  loud  burst  of  laughter  on  this 
humourous  sally  at  my  discomfiture.  "But 
maybe,"  she  added  with  much  significance, 
"you  will  lose  nothing." 

Then  the  Valkyrie  rose  and  addressed  her 
comrades  with  a  few  ringing  sentences  in  her 
own  tongue.  Her  words  suddenly  raised  a 
hellish  enthusiasm  among  them,  and  all  at  once 
every  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  hastily  filling 
brimmers  of  the  blood-red  wine.  And,  with  the 
clatter  of  swords  drawn  and  chairs  cast  away, 
there  rose  within  the  room  the  thundering 
^""Eljcn  Kossuth!''  which  was  instantly  echoed 
from  outside,  where  presently  the  band  blared 
forth  in  brassy  tones  the  Kossuth  March. 
Thereupon,  with  spontaneous  accord,  the 
feasters'  raucous  voices  took  up  the  chant  with 
much  brandishing  of  swords  and  dashing  of 
glasses. 

Those  who  have  not  witnessed  Hungarian 
enthusiasm  cannot  realise  its  truly  demoniacal 
frenzy.  Through  all  this  uproar  pierced  the 
high-pitched  shrieks  of  the  children,  who, 
profiting  by  the  confusion,  escaped  from  their 
captors  to  run  once  more  into  their  mother's 
arms. 

256 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

To  me,  choking  with  indignation,  yet  held 
down  by  bodily  weakness  and  the  helplessness 
of  circumstance,  the  scene  was  a  very  night- 
mare; and  that  feeling  was  not  a  little  in- 
creased when  I  noted,  as  I  moved  away  to 
remain  by  the  side  of  the  Countess  and  her 
piteous  little  bodyguard,  when  she  tremblingly 
sought  a  distant  corner,  that  the  sentry,  whom 
I  had  forgotten,  still  followed  me  about,  close 
and  silent  like  a  shadow.  Then  I  seem  to 
have  lost  the  exact  consciousness  of  all  that 
followed ;  but  by-and-by,  blindly  seeking  fresh 
air  at  the  open  window,  I  became  aware  in  the 
moonlight  of  many  carriages  rumbling  into 
the  great  courtyard;  and  the  band  just  outside 
the  hall  began  to  play  dance  music.  When  I 
turned  round  once  more  I  verily  believed  for  a 
moment  that  delirium  had  again  overtaken  me. 

The  banquet  hall  had  become  a  ball-room, 
and  a  number  of  couples  were  already  swirling 
to  the  measures  of  a  heart-stirring  waltz ;  the 
ladies  in  lowest  and  gayest  of  ball-dresses, 
each  displaying  in  some  manner  and  most 
conspicuously  the  red-green-white  of  National- 
ist sympathy,  resting  white-gloved  hands  and 
bare  arms  on  the  dirty,  worn  tunics  of  the 
officers. 

A  young  hussar  lieutenant,  who  had  just 
halted  beside  me,  smiled  his  delight  with 
gleaming  white  teeth  under  his  black  mous- 

257 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

tache,  laughed  openly  at  my  stricken  counte- 
nance, and  said,  in  excellent  English — 

"Is  this  not,  sir,  an  exquisite  attention  of 
our  general  to  so  many  people  who,  likely, 
must  die  to-morrow?  Making  a  pleasure  of 
the  muster!  A  good  muster,  you  see.  All 
right-thinking  neighbours  have  been  ordered 
to  attend.  How  much  is  patriotism,  how  much 
fear — ah,  how  much  love  for  the  dance?  Well, 
dum  viviinus,  vivamus.  It  might  almost  be 
taken  as  our  National  motto.  If  you,  sir, 
were  even  a  Viennese  (let  alone  Hungarian) 
instead  of  a  cool  Englishman,  invalid  though 
you  be,  you  would  have  enough  fresh  life  put 
into  you  by  this  music  to  make  you  dance  till 
dawn.  I  love  Englishmen  though,"  he  added, 
as  he  prepared  with  his  panting  partner  to 
plunge  once  more  into  the  maze.  "I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  here,  and  not  of  us.  Well,  the  for- 
tune of  war!"  and  he  whirled  away  from  me. 

Presently,  among  the  gyrating  couples,  the 
Countess  herself,  half  carried  on  the  arm  of  the 
Honved  general,  passed  close  in  front,  her 
dainty  black  satin  slippers  following  bravely 
enough  the  piercing  measures  of  the  waltz,  in 
time  with  the  wornout  high  boots  and  the 
silver  spurs ;  but  on  her  face  was  none  of  the 
glow  that  lit  up  almost  every  cheek ;  the  long- 
lashed  eyelids  were  dropped;  already  she 
looked  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living  being ; 

258 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

already  methought  I  saw  the  livid  rope  mark 
on  that  fair  throat,  and  the  blood  curdled  in 
my  veins.  A  young  officer,  who  found  himself 
without  a  full-grown  partner,  had,  in  cruel  fun, 
seized  the  youngest  child,  mute  and  tearless 
with  terror,  and  was  whirling  it  at  the  swiftest 
pace  in  and  out  of  the  waltzing  groups. 

A  Danse  Macabre  of  victims  and  murderers ! 
And  again  the  word.  Fear,  so  carelessly 
dropped  by  the  hussar.  Fear,  antiphon  of 
Patriotism,  came  to  my  mind;  how  many  here 
present  had  not  that  grim  spectre  at  the  back 
of  their  gaiety? 

The  devoted  victim  of  the  morrow  had 
passed  through  the  arms  of  some  half  dozen  of 
the  chiefs,  for  ladies  were  in  a  minority  at  this 
expiatory  funeral  ball,  and  she  still  main- 
tained a  brave  bearing,  dimly  hoping,  perhaps 
(though  a  faint  resource  indeed),  to  awaken 
some  chivalrous  pity  in  these  savages  by  her 
undaunted  mien,  when,  through  the  open  win- 
dows, over  the  swinging  measures  of  music, 
came  the  sound  of  a  tearing  gallop  on  the  stone 
bridge.  There  was  a  sharp  call,  a  loud  word  of 
command,  the  music  stopped  suddenly,  and 
presently,  as  in  the  hall  the  dancing  couples 
halted  and  separated,  an  officer  of  hussars 
entered,  covered  with  dust  and  begrimed  with 
sweat,  who  in  a  peremptory  voice  demanded 
the  general.     And  when  the  latter  advanced 

259 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

and  tore  open  the  proffered  dispatch,  the  new- 
comer looked  around  with  astonished  and 
displeased  countenance  on  the  scene  of 
unseasonable  revelry. 

The  message,  brief  as  it  seemed,  was  evi- 
dently pregnant  with  meaning.  The  general 
called  up  his  staff  around  him,  a  rapid  con- 
sultation ensued,  and  several  officers  forthwith 
disappeared  to  carry  out  orders.  Nothing 
more  was  now  heard  in  the  hall  but  the  buck- 
ling of  belts,  low-voiced  comments  of  the  men, 
whispered  words  of  the  ladies  as  they  withdrew 
to  different  corners.  I  saw  my  blue  hussar, 
making  a  low  bow  to  the  Countess,  who  had 
retreated  to  the  further  end  of  the  room,  where 
she  was  again  surrounded  by  her  children, 
address  a  few  words  to  her,  upon  which  she 
disappeared  behind  a  group  of  her  guests. 
And  presently  he  passed  me  without  looking 
at  me ;  but  stooping  to  pick  up  his  fur  busby 
left  in  a  corner  of  the  window,  he  said  again 
in  English — 

"Sir,  keep  out  of  sight  if  you  can — best 
wishes ;   farewell. ' ' 

After  which  with  admirable  swagger  he 
went  to  seek  his  post. 

By  this  time,  in  the  courtyard,  the  clarions 
sounded  their  panting  peals,  whilst  in  the  vil- 
lage hard  by  the  graver  notes  of  the  cavalry 
trumpets    called    to  boot   and    saddle.      And 

260 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

shortly — for  the  Hungarian  levies  were  dis- 
ciplined enough  when  fighting  was  at  hand — 
some  three  battalions  of  foot  were  steadily- 
arrayed  under  the  silver  moonlight  in  the  wide 
court  of  honour;  further  away,  in  the  night, 
was  heard  the  champing  of  horses  in  long 
lines ;  still  further,  down  the  road  rattled  and 
rumbled  the  ordnance  train  already  on  the 
move. 

At  last,  besides  the  guests,  the  prisoners  and 
my  motionless  warder,  there  remained  none  in 
the  room  but  the  Valkyrie  (I  could  never  think 
of  her  by  any  other  name)  and  the  bepiumed 
volunteer  general.  To  him,  at  one  time,  she 
spoke  inquiringly,  pointing  with  marked 
significance  in  the  direction  of  her  sister.  I 
guessed  the  ferocious  question.  But  the  man, 
all  engrossed  by  the  present  juncture,  merely 
looked  round  unseeingly,  and  his  eyes  reverted 
to  the  papers  in  his  hand.  At  that  moment 
yet  another  messenger  entered  the  hall,  a 
peasant  of  the  plains  in  the  white  smock  of  his 
class,  who  had  that  to  announce  which  made 
the  general  start  in  anger  and  hurriedly  seek 
his  charger. 

The  last  to  leave  us  was  the  Valkyrie.  She 
stood  still  some  moments  and  looked  round 
pensively  at  the  white  group  of  women  in  the 
distant  end;  then,  reluctantly,  she  walked 
away  with  clanking  spurs. 

261 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

A  few  moments  later,  from  the  dark  masses 
of  men  gathered  in  front  of  the  Castle,  rose, 
like  the  firing  of  a  powder  train  ending  in 
explosion,  the  soaring  ''' Eljen''  of  the  National- 
ists, as  the  general  galloped  past  the  ranks 
with  the  usual  words  of  patriotic  exultation. 
And  in  ten  minutes,  to  the  blood-stirring 
strains  of  the  Rakoczy  March,  the  partisan 
force  had  marched  forth :  marched  on  its  way  to 
annihilation.  For  this  was  the  dawn  of  the 
23rd  of  July,  1849,  when  the  long  spell  of  fitful 
Hungarian  victories  was  broken  by  the  first 
successful  surprise  action  on  our  side,  com- 
pleted by  Russian  pursuit. 

In  the  Castle  of  Komjath,  as  the  twilight  of 
returning  day  warmed  from  siluer  to  gold, 
none  were  left  but  the  sick  and  the  serving- 
women  as  before,  together  with  the  gaily 
attired  ladies  who  had  been  ordered  to  attend 
the  dance,  and  who  now  waited  for  their  car- 
riages— waited  in  vain,  for  all  horses  and 
coachmen  had  been  impressed  by  the  guerrilla. 
Even  the  sentry  placed  over  my  precious  body 
with  such  strict  injunctions  had  been  unable  to 
resist  the  wild  cheering,  and  was  no  doubt  now 
tramping  with  his  comrades  and  eagerly  scent- 
ing the  fight  from  afar. 

In  the  house  there  was  all  but  complete 
silence.  Just  as  the  sun  in  his  splendour 
peered  at  us  over  the  hill-top    between  two 

262 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

poplar-trees,  dazzling  our  tired  eyes,  yet  greet- 
ing them  as  a  joyous  omen,  there  rolled 
through  the  window  on  the  wing  of  the  breeze 
the  distant  boom  of  cannon;  and,  not  many 
minutes  later,  the  faint  crepitation  of  musketry 
began  to  be  heard,  varied  at  times  by  the  more 
formal  rattle  of  volleys.  And  we  knew  that  the 
momentous  struggle  had  begun. 

Some  of  the  women  were  on  their  knees. 

Still  in  her  corner  the  Countess  sat  apart  and 
silent,  with  her  youngest  child  on  her  knee, 
watching  the  others  as  they  slept  on  the  sofa. 
As  for  me,  as  I  noted  the  great  blue  circles  of 
exhaustion  under  her  eyes,  and  the  stamp  of 
the  terrible  strain  on  her  drawn  features,  cold 
shivers  of  impotent  fury  ran  the  length  of  my 
spine.  With  what  fervour  I  yearned  for  bodily 
strength,  for  a  sturdy  horse  with  which  to 
meet  on  fair  terms,  sword  in  hand,  our  insolent 
victors  of  an  hour  ago ! 

In  such  outer  stillness  and  inner  turmoil  of 
thought — varied  for  me  at  least,  for  I  believe 
I  was  at  moments  light-headed,  by  intervals 
of  dreaminess — did  the  morning  pass  away. 
Out  of  this  state  of  things  we  were  awakened 
by  returning  commotion  in  the  outer  world.  I 
was  glued  to  my  chair  by  weakness;  but  I 
remember  that,  as  the  sound  of  horses  neared 
the  house,  the  Countess  started  to  her  feet  and 
with  the  crying  child  in  her  arms  ran  to  the 

263 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

balcony.  There  was  a  ghastly  look  of  renewed 
terror  on  her  face ;  but  after  she  had  peered 
out  for  a  moment  under  her  slender  jewelled 
hand,  it  suddenly  changed  to  one  of  over- 
powering joy. 

And  presently  clanging  military  footsteps 
resounded  again  at  the  door.  A  burly  major 
of  Uhlans  entered  with  an  adjutant.  The  two 
men  stood  one  moment  on  the  threshold  star- 
ing angrily  at  the  unsparing  display  of  the 
rebel  tricolour  and  the  signs  of  recent  f  estive- 
ness  in  the  room,  and  next  the  Major  was 
towering  in  front  of  my  chair,  eyeing  me  with 
an  appalling  look,  and  severely  demanding  an 
explanation  concerning  the  presence  of  an 
Imperial  officer  amidst  such  surroundings. 

I  rose  by  a  desperate  effort,  with  a  sickly 
attempt  at  cavalry  smartness ;  but  the  change 
of  posture  was  fatal,  and  I  slid  down  on  the 
parquet  floor.  After  this  I  recollect  nothing 
for  that  day,  except  noticing  in  one  returning 
glimmer  of  consciousness,  as  I  was  escorted 
away,  that  the  body  of  the  grey-headed 
steward — already  some  hours  dead  to  judge 
from  his  limply  pendent  feet— was  swinging 
under  the  gateway,  and  that  five  noosed  ropes, 
still  awaiting  their  burdens,  dangled  side  by 
side  from  the  same  beam ! 

The   posthumous  testimony  of  the  faithful 
old   servant  corroborating  what  to  a  regular 

264 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

soldier  must  have  seemed  at  first  an  utterly 
incredible  tale,  no  doubt  saved  the  Countess 
from  many  unmerited  troubles  at  the  hands  of 
her  very  saviours. 

But  saviours  they  really  proved.  A  few  days 
later  came  the  news  of  the  incomprehensible 
surrender  at  Vilagos ;  that  sudden  betrayal  of 
the  indomitable  Hungarian  army  by  Gorgey— 
Gorgey  already  traitor  to  his  King,  traitor  in 
the  end  to  his  own  chosen  side — which  put  an 
end  to  the  National  movement. 

Then  began,  as  we  all  know,  the  period  of 
ruthless  and  injudicious  Austrian  persecution 
which  for  so  many  years  kept  alive  a  burning 
hatred  between  the  two  nations. 

It  was,  however,  with  a  feeling  that 
"poetical"  justice  had  had  its  course  in  one 
case  at  least,  that  I  learned,  soon  after  my 
return  to  duty,  that  Nagy-Sandor  and  his  staff 
— among  which  was  the  partisan  general  who 
had  ordered  the  Death-Dance  festivities  at 
Komjath — had  been  hanged  with  little  cere- 
mony by  General  Haynau  soon  after  the  fall 
of  Comorn. 

All  this  is  matter  of  history.  What  still  ap- 
pertains to  the  present  relation  is  the  influence 
of  that  far-off  incident  on  the  course  of  my  life. 

The  chain  was  reconnected  only  some  seven- 
teen years  later,  in  that  well-known  year  of 

265 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

happy  forgiveness  and  reconciliation,  when  the 
Kaiser  was  at  last  crowned  King  of  Hungary, 
in  his  Hungarian  capital.  I  had  just  left  the 
Imperial  service,  the  immediate  cause  of  this 
change  being  an  unexpected  succession  to  the 
Bycross  estate.  Now,  although  the  event  was 
welcome  enough,  there  was  in  my  thoughts  an 
under-current  of  sadness  at  leaving  for  ever  the 
old  regiment  in  which  I  had  served  almost  a 
score  of  years  and  which  was  none  the  less 
glorious,  indeed  was  almost  all  the  dearer  to 
me,  for  that  most  of  its  later  service  had  been 
associated  with  defeat. 

Before  returning  to  England,  on  my  way 
back  from  Pesth,  strangely  impressed  with  the 
barbaric  splendours  of  the  coronation,  more 
especially  with  the  marvellous  sight  of  the 
Magyars'  enthusiasm  in  their  restored  loyalty 
to  their  King,  I  yielded  to  an  irresistible  desire 
to  re-visit  the  nefarious  neighbourhood  of 
Comorn.  Riding  at  leisure,  master  of  my  own 
time,  I  wended  my  way  from  the  Apali  woods 
through  the  rich  and  peaceful  land  of  Neutra, 
and  pushed  as  far  as  the  well-remembered 
strategic  bridge  of  Komjath. 

Over  its  sounding  stones  I  passed  once  more 
and  reined  in  to  contemplate  the  scene.  Just 
the  same  despite  the  lapse  of  years,  save  for  a 
more  prosperous  appearance.  In  the  court  of 
honour,  amid  the  heavy  laden  rose-trees  near 

266 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

the  walls,  fluttered  the  white  dress  of  a  lady 
attended  by  maids  in  the  bright  national  cos- 
tume :  the  whole  land  at  that  time  was  airing 
its  national  jubilation. 

I  boldly  entered,  and  to  my  question  whether 
the  Countess  still  lived  at  the  Castle — 

"There  is  the  gracious  lady  herself," 
answered  the  gate-keeper  reverentially.  He 
took  my  horse,  and  I  advanced  hat  in  hand. 

Although  much  aged  in  face,  she  was  still 
alert  and  beautiful,  and  I  knew  her  at  once. 
But  she,  of  course,  could  not  recognise  in  the 
mature  Rittmeister  who,  unannounced,  was 
thus  invading  her  ground,  the  callow  boy  that 
in  the  old  distressful  days  a  Russian  ambu- 
lance had  dropped  at  her  door;  she  eyed  me 
with  courteous  inquiry. 

"Can  the  Countess,"  I  asked,  "in  these 
times  of  fraternal  reconciliation,  recall  to  mind 
a  certain  great  ball  at  Castle  Komj^th,  where 
one  Cornet  Ainsdale,  so  nearly  the  cause  of 
irreparable  mischief,  had  the  honour  to 
attend?" 

Before  the  end  of  my  phrase  the  look  of 
polite  affability  in  the  lady's  eyes  had  given 
place  to  amazement  and  pleasure.  She 
dropped  the  gathered  roses  with  a  joyful  excla- 
mation and  extended  both  her  hands. 

And  thus  for  the  second  time  I  found  myself 
the    guest    of    Komjath.    And  again,    though 

267 


THE   DEATH-DANCE 

under  no  precarious  conditions,  I  remained  a 
long  while.  And  when  I  left  I  bore  away  with 
me  one  of  that  warm-hearted  household  to  con- 
nect for  ever  the  variegated  past  with  the 
happy  present — Luise,  the  little  dark-eyed 
messenger  of  yore.     But  this  is  forestalling. 

As  we  walked  towards  the  entrance,  talking 
of  course  of  the  tragic  days  of  old,  there 
appeared  in  the  distance  a  slender  young 
woman  who  rode  with  admirable  grace  a  long- 
tailed  black  horse. 

"Does  Major  Ainsdale,"  asked  my  hostess, 
mimicking  my  words  of  self-introduction, 
"recollect  a  very  tiny  child  who  passed  most 
of  that  night  of  emotion  in  her  mother's  arms, 
little  conscious  of  being  so  near  death  on  the 
gallows?     There  she  comes — Luise." 

But,  when  I  looked  under  the  new-comer's 
felt  hat,  I  nearly  called  aloud.  There  was 
before  my  eyes  my  Valkyrie  again !  The  same 
oval  face  with  its  ardent  pallor,  the  same 
lustrous  dark  eyes  which  so  long  had  haunted 
my  memory.  The  same,  yet  not  the  same. 
For,  as  smiling  and  blushing,  the  rider 
acknowledged  our  introduction,  the  image  of 
the  set,  revengeful  Amazon  of  my  recollections 
melted  for  ever  into  a  radiant  vision  of  sweet 
and  timid  maidenhood.  And  I  have  never  seen 
it  again  these  thirty  years  until  it  was  evoked 
again  by  the  transient  flash  of  the  matchlight. 

268 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

My  hostess  read  my  thoughts  instantly. 

"Luise  reminds  you  of  some  one  else,"  she 
exclaimed.  "Ah!  it  will  please  you  no  doubt 
to  meet  again  the  original, ' '  she  added  laugh- 
ingly, "who  lives  with  us,  and  is  here  now — fresh 
returned  from  the  crowning  festivities  atPesth. " 

I  looked  at  her  amazed,  hardly  realising 
amidst  the  fresh  memories  of  the  surround- 
ings the  meaning  of  her  words. 

When  we  moved  into  the  great  hall  which  I 
knew  so  well,  we  found  there  a  rather  stout, 
middle-aged,  good-natured,  and  cosy-looking 
woman,  engaged  in  presiding  over  the  afternoon 
coffee,  and  distributing  good  things  to  several 
young  people  in  a  most  motherly  manner. 

To  this  personage,  in  whom  I  could  not  trace 
the  smallest  likeness  to  the  relentless  leader  of 
men  I  had  first  seen  by  powder  light,  I  was 
introduced  by  the  Countess  (with  just  a  shadow 
of  sly  emphasis)  as  having  been  a  witness  of 
certain  critical  events  in  the  terrible  year. 

I  kissed  her  hand — that  hand  which  would 
have  tied  the  noose  round  her  sister's  neck, 
and  the  children's  little  innocent  weasands — 
I  was  like  a  man  in  a  dream ;  there  was  no 
connecting  her  with  the  beautiful  and  relent- 
less Valkyrie  of  my  boyish  days. 

She  was  affable  and  apparently  unconcerned, 
though  during  the  course  of  the  meal  she 
paused  once  with  the  bread-knife  half  through 

269 


THE    DEATH-DANCE 

the  loaf  she  was  slicing,  gazing  into  void  as  if 
in  a  profound  day-dream. 

It  was  only  later,  when  she  had  stretched 
herself  in  an  arm-chair  and  was  puffing  at  a 
long  Virginia,  whilst  the  smallest  grand- 
nephew,  who  was  her  special  pet,  sat  on  her 
broad  lap  and  watched  with  delight  the  opal 
cloud  issuing  from  her  lips,  that  we  fairly 
broached  again  the  chapter  of  reminiscences. 

Opposite  to  us,  the  Countess,  with  her 
daughter  by  her  side,  was  embroidering  some 
piece  of  work  in  the  now  legalised  and 
ubiquitous  national  tints,  and  smilingly  listen- 
ing to  the  fitful  talk. 

I  mentioned,  in  time,  to  the  retired  Amazon 
the  five  ropes  hanging  under  the  portal — my 
last  recollection  of  that  eventful  day. 

"Do  you  not  wish,"  I  asked,  "that  you  could 
efface  those  dreadful  times  from  your  memory, 
or  at  least  do  you  not  feel  thankful  that  they 
are  now  buried  so  far  away  in  the  past?" 

For  awhile  she  answered  nought,  but  mus- 
ingly caressed  the  child's  fair  hair  whilst  a 
wistful  smile  played  on  her  lips.  Then  she 
drew  a  sigh  deep  from  her  heavy  bosom,  kissed 
the  boy,  and  put  him  on  his  feet. 

"Ah!"  she  said  with  an  effort,  as  if  putting 
the  thought  aside,  "I  was  young  then." 

During  the  whole  of  my  stay  there  the  sub- 
ject was  never  alluded  to  again. 

270 


By  CLINTON  ROSS 

THE  SCARLET  COAT 
A  tale  of  the  siege  of  Yorktown. 

It  is  seldom  that  so  much  valuable  history  is  to  be  found  in  a 
novel  as  "The  Scarlet  Coat"  contains.  It  is  one  of  the  inosfr 
interesting  stories  of  the  Revolution  that  has  appeared  in  many 
a  year— a  charming  story  from  first  to  last.— The  Army  and  Navy 
Register. 

'  'The  Scarlet  Coat' '  is  an  extremely  interesting  historical  novel. 
— Springfield  Republican. 

16mo.    Cloth.    $1.25. 

THE  PUPPET 

A  story  of  adventure. 

All  the  work  that  we  have  seen  thus  far  glows  with  happy 
enthusiasm.  His  brush  is  moist  with  the  colors  that  tell.— 
Boston  Herald. 

Unless  we  are  very  much  mistaken,  he  is  a  literary  figure  of 
great  importance.  There  is  an  ease,  combined  with  delicacy  of 
treatment,  which  renders  his  stories  peculiarly  attractive.  Add 
to  this  freshness  of  motive,  skill,  characterization,  and  excellent 
powers  of  description,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  this  young 
romancer  has  distinct  claims  on  our  attention. — Boston  Transcript. 

16mo.  Cloth.  Uniform  with  "  The  Scarlet  Coat." 
$1.25. 

THE  MEDDLING  HUSSY 

The  thirteen  tales  making  up  this  collection  have 
from  time  to  time  appeared  in  the  great  magazines, 
and  have  met  witQ  great  success.  Indeed,  it  was 
through  these  "Battle  Tales"  that  Mr.  Ross  first 
came  to  be  known  by  the  larger  public,  and  not  until 
the  appearance  of  "  The  Scarlet  Coat "  was  his  genius 
for  the  novel  recognized. 

16mo.  Cloth.  Uniform  with  "  The  Scarlet  Coat." 
Illustrated.    $1.50. 

Heebert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  ROBERT  HICHENS 

THE  LONDONERS:    AN  ABSURDITY 

"  The  Green  Carnation ''  was  among  the  most  amus- 
ing society  sketches  that  recent  years  have  given  us. 
After  it  Mr,  Hichens,  perhaps  wisely,  devoted  himself 
to  much  more  serious  work.  In  "  The  Londoners  " 
he  returns  to  his  original  manner  without  making  his 
burlesque  so  personal.  It  is  the  story  of  a  smart 
woman,  wearied  by  her  position  and  its  duties,  who 
seeks  to  get  out  of  society.  The  idea  is  an  original 
one,  and  when  contrasted  with  the  efforts  of  a  second 
heroine  to  get  into  society,  the  result  is  wholly  delight- 
ful. The  story  has  already  attained  a  considerable 
popularity. 

With  a  cover  designed  by  Claude  F.  Bragdon. 
12mo.    Cloth.    Second  impression.    $1.50. 


FLAMES:  A  LONDON  FANTASY 

The  book  is  sure  to  be  widely  read. — Buffalo  Commercial. 

It  carries  on  the  attention  of  the  reader  from  the  first  chapter 
to  the  last.  Full  of  exciting-  incidents,  very  modern,  excessively 
up  to  date. — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

In  his  last  book  Mr.  Hichens  has  entirely  proved  himself.  His 
talent  does  not  so  much  lie  in  the  conventional  novel,  but  more 
in  his  strange  and  fantastic  medium.  "  Flames  "  suits  him,  has 
him  at  his  best. — Pall  Hall  Gazette. 

"Flames  "  is  a  jvowerful  story,  not  only  for  the  novelty  of  its 
plot,  but  for  the  skill  with  which  it  is  M^orked  out,  the  brilliancy 
of  its  descriptions  of  the  London  streets,  of  the  seamy  side  of  the 
city's  life  which  night  turns  to  the  beholder;  but  the  descriptions 
are  neither  erotic  nor  morbid.  *  *  *  We  may  repudiate  the 
central  idea  of  soul-transference,  but  the  theory  is  made  the 
vehicle  of  this  striking  tale  in  a  manner  that  is  entirely  sane  and 
wholesome.  It  leaves  no  bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  *  *  * 
"Flames" — it  is  the  author's  fancy  that  the  soul  is  like  a  little 
flame,  and  hence  the  title — must  be  read  with  care.  There  is 
much  epigrammatic  writing  in  it  that  will  delight  the  literary 
palate.  It  is  far  and  away  ahead  of  anything  that  Mr.  Hichens 
has  ever  written  before. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

With  a  cover  designed  by  F.  R.  Kimbrough.  12mo. 
Cloth.    Second  impression.    $1.50. 

Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  JULIA  MAGRUDER 

A  REALIZED  IDEAL 

Miss  Julia  Magruder  has  by  this  time  firmly  estab- 
lished her  reputation  as  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
our  younger  writers.  Many  readers  had  their  intro- 
duction to  her  when  "The  Princess  Sonia"  began  in 
the  pages  of  The  Century  Magazine,  and  all  agreed 
that  the  most  charming  love-story  they  had  read  for 
years  came  from  this  almost  unknown  Southern  girl. 

Since  then  "The  Violet"  and  a  volume  of  short 
stories,  entitled,  "Miss  Ayr  of  Virginia,"  have  ap- 
peared. In  the  title  of  this  latest  volume,  Miss 
Magruder,  in  a  way,  makes  the  confession  that  she  is 
an  old-fashioned  writer.  At  least  she  is  not  modern 
in  some  of  the  unpleasant  meanings  of  the  word.  In 
her  book,  "  ideals  "  are  sometimes  to  be  "  realized," 
and  the  whole  story  is  an  unobtrusive  protest  in  favor 
of  sweetness  and  of  sentiment  in  fiction. 

The  volume  is  bound  in  an  exceedingly  good  design 
by  Frank  Hazenplug,  in  three  colors. 

16mo.    Cloth.    ^1.25. 


MISS  AYR  OP  VIRGINIA    AND  OTHER 
STORIES 

By  means  of  original  incident  and  keen  portraiture,  "Miss 
Ayr  of  Virginia,  and  Other  Stories,"  is  made  a  decidedly  read- 
able collection.  In  the  initial  tale  the  character  of  the  young 
Southern  girl  is  especially  well  drawn;  Miss  Mag^ruder's  most 
artistic  work,  however,  is  found  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  under 
the  title  "  Once  More."— TAe  Outlook. 

The  contents  of  "  Miss  Ayr  of  Virginia  "  are  not  less  fascinat>- 
ing  than  the  cover.  *  *  *  These  tales  *  *  *  are  a  delight- 
ful divereion  for  a  spare  hour.  They  are  dreamy  without  being 
candidly  realistic,  and  are  absolutely  refreshing  in  the  simplicity 
of  the  author's  sX,y\&.— Boston  Herald. 

Julia  Magruder's  stories  are  so  good  that  one  feels  like  reading 
passages  here  and  there  again  and  again.  In  the  collection, 
"Miss  Ayr  of  Virginia  and  Other  Stories,"  she  is  at  her  best,  and 
"Miss  Ayr  of  Virginia,"  has  all  the  daintiness,  the  point  and 
pith  and  charm  which  the  author  so  well  commands.  The  por- 
traiture of  a  sweet,  unsophisticated,  pretty,  smart  Southern  girl 
is  bewitching. — Minneapolis  Times. 

With  a  cover  designed  by  P.  R.  Kimbrough.  16mo. 
$1.25. 

Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  HAROLD  FREDERIC 

GLORIA  MUNDI:    A  NOVEL 

Mr.  Frederic's  two  triumphs  of  the  last  few  years 
have  been  "The  Damnation  of  Theron  Ware"  in 
serious  fiction  and  "March  Hares"  in  a  light  and 
brilliantly  witty  style  which  is  all  his  own.  "  Gloria 
Mundi "  comes  as  his  first  work  since  the  publication 
of  these  two  successful  books — and  happily  enough 
— it  combines  the  keen  thoughtful  analysis  of  the  one 
with  the  delicacy  of  touch  of  the  other.  Mr.  Frederic 
takes  for  his  hero  a  young  man  brought  up  without 
much  attention  in  the  south  of  France,  who,  by  a 
wholly  unexpected  combination  of  circumstances, 
falls  heir  to  an  English  earldom.  His  entire  training 
has  unfitted  him  for  the  position,  and  Mr.  Frederic 
makes  much  of  the  difiiculties  it  forces  upon  him. 
The  other  characters  are  some  good  and  bad  mem- 
bers of  the  nobility,  an  "  actress-lady,"  and  a  type- 
writer. 

12mo.  Cloth.  Uniform  with  "  The  Damnation  of 
Theron  Ware."    $1.50. 


THE  DAMNATION  OF  THEEON  WARE 

It  is  unnecessary  at  this  time  to  say  much  of  "The 
Damnation  of  Theron  Ware"  or  "Illumination"  as 
it  is  called  in  England.  The  sales  have  already 
reached  thirty-five  thousand,  which  is  in  itself  the 
most  substantial  evidence  of  the  novel's  readable- 
ness.  Owing  to  the  failure  of  its  former  publishers 
the  book  was  temporarily  out  of  print,  but  it  is  now 
enjoying  a  constant  and  certain  success. 

The  merit  of  the  booE  is  worthy  of  special  praise  because  of 
the  exceptional  strength,  variety,  and  originality  of  the  char- 
acters.—Cfeyetond  World. 

Mr.  Frederic  has  written  a  daring  story,  and  one  which  is 
doubly  impressive  because  of  the  straightforward  sunphcity  of 
his  manner  of  presenting  his  case.  His  attack  is  certainly  a  bold 
one,  and  it  will  be  strange  if  he  does  not  bring  down  the  unani- 
mous maledictions  of  the  cloth  on  his  devoted  hea,d.— Chicago 
livening  Post. 

12mo.    Cloth.    Thirty-fifth  thousand.    $1.50. 

Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  H.  C.  CHATFIELD-TAYLOR 

THE  VICE  OF  FOOLS 

A  novel  of  society  life  in  Washington. 

The  great  success  of  Mr.  Chatfield-Taylor's  society 
novels  gives  assurance  of  a  large  sale  to  this  new 
story.  It  can  hardly  be  denied  that  few  persona  in 
this  country  are  better  qualified  to  treat  the  "  smart 
set"  in  various  American  cities,  and  the  life  in 
diplomatic  circles  offers  an  unusually  picturesque 
opportunity. 

Mr.  Chatfield-Taylor  has  brought  out  a  fourth  novel,  and  one 
■which  is  distinctly  a  gain  in  style  over  his  previous  achievements 
in  that  line.  As  a  series  of  society  scenes  the  panorama  of  the 
book  is  perfect.  A  dinner  at  the  Hungarian  embassy  is  detailed 
with  much  humor,  great  pictorial  power  and  keen  knowledge. 
The  dialogue  may  be  characterized  heartily  as  crisp,  witty,  and 
sparkling.  Mr.  Chatfield-Taylor  proves  himself  a  past  master  of 
epigram;  and  if  society  were  to  talk  a  tenth  as  well  as  he  repre- 
sents there  would  be  no  cause  for  accusing  it  of  frivolity. — 
Chicago  limes-Herald. 

16mo.  Cloth.  "With  ten  full-page  illustrations  by 
Raymond  M.  Crosby.    Fifth  thousand.    $1.50. 


TWO  WOMEN  AND  A  FOOL 

The  story  of  an  actress,  an  artist  and  a  very  sweet 
girl.  The  scenes  are  laid  in  Chicago,  London,  and 
Paris;  in  theatres,  studios,  and  bachelor  apartments. 
It  is  the  history  of  an  infatuation — with  moral  inter- 
ludes. 

Mr.  H.  C.  Chatfleld-Taylor,  whom  Paul  Bourget  has  named 
as  the  most  promising  novelist  of  American  social  life,  has  given 
us  a  clever  story  in  "Two  Women  and  a  Fool."  The  tale  is 
retrospective;  one  hears  it  from  the  lips  of  Guy,  an  artist;  and  it 
concerns  his  love  for  two  women,  a  very  naughty  and  an  ex- 
tremely nice  one,  Moira  and  Dorothy  respectively.  Moira,  who 
becomes  a  soubrette,  leads  Guy,  who  becomes  a  successful  artist, 
a  tremendous  pace,  wearying  him  at  length,  but  still  holding  the 
power  to  revive  him  with  her  look  that  allures.  The  romance 
leaps  from  Chicago  to  London  and  Paris  and  back  to  the  Windy 
City  again.  It  is  steadily  entertaining,  and  its  dialogue,  which 
is  always  witty,  is  often  brilliant.  C.  D.  Gibson's  pictures  are 
really  illustrative. — Philadelphia  Press. 

18mo.  Cloth.  With  frontispiece  by  C.  D.  Gibson. 
Ninth  thousand.    ?0.75. 

Hebbbbt  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  Nbw  York. 


By  F.  FRANKFORT  MOORE 

THE  JESSAMY  BRIDE 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  recent  years.  It  had  no 
large  success  on  publication  but  the  sale  has  steadily 
increased,  every  reader  recommending  it  to  others. 
Mr.  George  Merriam  Hyde  writes  in  the  Booh  Buyer: 

"The  story  seems  to  me  the  strongest  and  sincerest  bit  of  fic- 
tion I  have  read  since  "  Quo  Vadis." 

The  Bookman  says  of  it: 

"  A  novel  in  praise  of  the  most  lovable  of  men  of  letters,  not 
even  excepting  Charles  Lamb,  must  be  welcome,  though  in  it 
the  romance  of  Goldsmith's  life  may  be  made  a  little  too  much 
of  for  strict  truth  *  *  *  Mr.  Moore  has  the  history  of  the  time 
and  of  the  special  circle  at  his  finger-ends.  He  has  lived  in  its 
atmosphere,  and  his  transcripts  are  full  of  vivacity.  *  *  * 
"The  Jessamy  Bride "  is  a  very  good  story,  and  Mr.  Moore  has 
never  written  anything  else  so  chivalrous  to  man  or  woman." 

12mo.    Cloth.    Third  impression.    $1.50. 


THE  IMPUDENT  COMEDIAN  AND  OTHERS 

A  volume  of  capital  short  stories  relating  to  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries  characters — Nell 
Gwynn,  Kitty  Clive,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Dr.  Johnson, 
and  David  Qarrick.  They  are  bright,  witty  and 
dramatic. 

The  person  who  has  a  proper  eye  to  the  artistic  in  fiction  will 
possess  them  ere  another  day  shall  dawn. — Scranton  Tribune. 

Full  of  the  mannerisms  of  the  stage  and  thoroughly  Bohemian 
in  atmosphere. — Boston  Herald. 

The  celebrated  actresses  whomhe  takes  for  his  heroines  sparkle 
with  feminine  liveliness  of  mind. — New  York  Tribune. 

A  collection  of  short  stories  which  has  a  flash  of  the  pic- 
turesqueness,  the  repartee,  the  dazzle  of  the  age  of  Garrick  and 
Goldsmith,  and  Peg  Woffington  and  Kitty  Clive.— Hartford 
Courant. 

Mr.  P.  Frankfort  Moore  had  a  capital  idea  when  he  undertook 
to  throw  into  story  form  some  of  the  traditional  incidents  of  the 
history  of  the  stage  in  its  earlier  English  days.  Nell  Gw3mn, 
Kitty  Clive,  Mrs.  Siddons,  Mrs.  Abbington  and  others  are  cleverly 
depicted,  with  much  of  the  swagger  and  flavor  of  their  times.— 
The  Outlook. 

12mo.    Cloth.    11.50. 
Hbbbert  S.  Stonb  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  MARIA  LOUISE  POOL 

A  GOLDEN  SORROW 

This  novel  was  running  serially  in  Oodey's  Maga- 
zine at  the  time  of  Miss  Pool's  death.  It  will  not, 
however,  be  completed  in  that  periodical,  but  will  be 
issued  at  once  in  book  form.  It  is  a  story  of  love  and 
adventure  in  St.  Augustine,  much  more  exciting  than 
Miss  Pool's  stories  usually  are,  but  with  all  her 
delightful  sense  of  humor. 

16mo.    Cloth,    $1.25. 

IN  BUNCOMBE  COUNTY 

"In  Buncombe  County"  is  bubbling  over  with  merriment — 
one  could  not  be  blue  with  such  a  companion  for  an  hour. — 
Boston  Times. 

It  is  brimming  over  with  humor,  and  the  reader  who  can  fol- 
low the  fortunes  of  the  redbird  alone,  who  flutters  through  the  first 
few  chapters,  and  not  be  moved  to  long  laughter,  must  be  sadly 
Insensitive.  But  laugh  as  he  may,  he  will  always  revert  to  the 
graver  vein  which  unobtrusively  runs  from  the  first  to  the  last 
page  in  the  book.  He  will  lay  down  the  narrative  of  almost 
grotesque  adventure  with  a  keen  remembrance  of  its  tenderness 
and  pathos.— iS'iSM'  York  Tribune. 

16mo.    Boards.    Second  impression.    $1.25. 


IN  A   DIKE  SHANTY 

Of  the  same  general  character  as  this  author's  "Tenting  on 
Stony  Beach,"  but  written  with  more  vigor  and  compactness. 
Each  of  the  persons  in  this  outing-sketch  is  strongly  individual- 
ized, and  an  effective  little  love  story  is  interwoven.  The  author 
has  a  certain  hardness  of  tone  which  gives  strength  to  her  work. 
— Atlantic  Monthly. 

With  a  cover  designed  by  Frank  Hazenplug. 
16mo.    Cloth,    $1,25. 

Hbrbekt  S,  Stone  &  Co,,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


By  GEORGE  ADE 

PINK  MARSH 
A  story  of  the  Streets  and  Town. 

There  is,  underlying  these  character  sketches,  a  refinement  of 
feeling  that  wins  and  retains  one's  admiration.— S<.  Louis  Olobe- 
Democrat. 

Here  is  a  perfect  triumph  of  characterization  .  .  .  Pink 
must  become  a  household  word. — Kansas  City  Star. 

It  is  some  time  since  we  have  met  with  a  more  amusing  char- 
acter than  is  "  Pink  Marsh,"  or  to  give  him  his  full  title,  William 
Pinckney  Marsh  of  Chicago.  .  .  .  "Pink"  is  not  a  conven- 
tional "  coon  "  of  the  comic  paper  and  the  variety  hall,  but  a 
genuine  flesh  and  blood  type,  presented  with  a  good  deal  of 
literary  and  artistic  skill.— A'ew  York  Sun. 

16mo.    Clothi.    Uniform  with  "  Artie."    With  forty 

full-page    illustrations    by    John    T.    McCutcheon. 

Eighth  thousand,    f  1.25. 

ARTIE 
A  story  of  the  Streets  and  Town. 

Mr.  Ade  shows  all  the  qualities  of  a  successful  novelist,— 
Chicago  Tribune. 

Artie  is  a  character,  and  George  Ade  has  limned  him  deftly  as 
well  as  amusingly.  Under  his  rollicking  abandon  and  reckless- 
ness we  are  made  to  feel  the  real  sense  and  sensitiveness,  and  the 
worldly  wisdom  of  a  youth  whose  only  language  is  that  of  a 
street-gamin.  As  a  study  of  the  peculiar  type  chosen,  it  is  both 
typical  and  inimitable. — Detroit  Free  Press. 

16mo.    Cloth.    Uniform  with  "  Pink  Marsh."   With 
many  illustrations  by  John  T.   McCutcheon.    Six- 
teenth thousand.    $1.25. 
Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago  &  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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